


Here Comes Trouble

by whoopsydaisy



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mercenary Wade, Peter is young, Spideypool - Freeform, again: he is young, conflicted feelings, dad tony stark, he is young, innocent!peter parker, it's in his nature, kinky!Wade, kinky!author, peter just wants to be praised honestly, protective aunt may, questionable behavior, tough-love Happy Hogan, wade wilson can be a dick, wade wilson is not a good example
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-03 02:40:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 43,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11522817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whoopsydaisy/pseuds/whoopsydaisy
Summary: Peter Parker is one persistent pain in the ass. After twenty-six long-winded messages, Happy loses all sense of logic.To appease Mr. Stark's beloved spider-kid, Happy feeds him an anonymous tip about a rogue, dishonorably-discharged special forces operative. If that just so happens to result in young Parker swinging straight into the arms of the dastardly handsome and thoroughly crude Wade Wilson, well, how could that be his fault?(After the events of Spider-Man: Homecoming; Before the events of Deadpool (2016))





	1. Oops!... I Did It Again

**Author's Note:**

> hey cool dudes!! :D
> 
> this is my first fic on this site, so any and all tips that could help me sex-up my tags/summary/the body of the fic would be much appreciated. i LOVE me some constructive criticism (i'm imagining that orgasm-looking emoji here with, like, five eggplants)
> 
> i've been obsessed with spideypool for a while now, and after watching spider-man: homecoming i got some delicious/ disgusting ideas
> 
> let me know in the comments if this is worth continuing! :)

* * *

 

A tiny part of Peter missed the first six months he'd lived with his powers. Sure, he'd been frightened by the changes in his physique/ physical abilities, and moreover he'd been overwhelmed by the weight of his secret, but at least his regular life had seemed so much less  _boring_. Answering rigorous academic questions and putting together Lego models with Ned used to be fun- nay,  _thrilling_ \- to him, but ever since Mr. Stark had given him his first taste of super-hero life, Peter's usual pass-times had lost their exciting flavor. 

Besides, life for Spider-Man had become infinitely more challenging since his tussle with the Vulture. Wherever he put on his suit, Peter got this odd chill in his gut, like something awful was going to happen to him any minute. There was 24/7 press coverage of his good deeds now, which gave him ten times the exposure that grainy YouTube videos used to. "CBS This Morning" even did a special where they discussed the lethal alien-based weapons trade he'd busted, including an in-depth interview of a criminal whose life he'd affected, which was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying for Peter. To boot, his school's amateur talk-show had taken to dedicating a third of its coverage to Spider-Man updates: pictures and information brought to his peers by the irritating parade of paparazzi that appeared whenever he helped somebody in need. 

It was hard for him to be the "friendly neighborhood Spider-Man" he'd rejected Mr. Stark's offer for with all of the newfound attention. Petty crimes slipped his notice when the cameras gave chase, and little boys had taken to crafting costume masks of their own to run around in. It was only a matter of time before some business-man capitalized on his logo and made a stupid amount of cash off of it, just like the corporate world had done with the image of the Avengers. Ned wouldn't quit begging Peter to let him be that business-man.

Alas, there were more important things in life to handle that inspired Peter to box his suit up for a bit. Mr. Stark had mentioned the possibility of securing him a college scholarship a while back, and ever since his death scare with the Vulture a couple of months back, he'd been seriously considering it. School used to be his escape: he was one of the smartest of his class, his dedicated studies showed well on tests, and he'd bagged enough extra-curricular accomplishments in one school year to cover three of them. Now? Now he was an ex-member of his marching band, a failed chess club kid, a disappointment to the world of stage craft- he was nothing but the guy who'd skipped out on the Academic Decathlon Nationals and ditched a hot senior at homecoming. 

And, oh,  _Liz_! He missed her pretty brown eyes and beautiful smile and words of wisdom more each day. He got this pang of guilt in his chest whenever he passed her locker, too. In a perfect world, he wasn't an acrobatic super-human who fought crime, and the car ride to homecoming went smoothly. In that same perfect world, her dad's business wreaked havoc on his home. He couldn't stand the worry in May's eyes the day she'd seen the scoop on the bank robbery; imagine if he'd never stopped that operation. How many more theoretical shops that Mr. Delmar ran would have to be destroyed in order to make his perfect world imperfect? So, no Liz. That relation-"ship" had sailed. 

 

* * *

 

After three months of mind-numbing school assignments and mediocre extracurricular work, Peter was ready to unbox the suit.

"Hey, Happy," he spoke cheerfully into the man-in-question's inbox, while between bites of sandwich, "I'm not sure how many messages this has been, ha-ha. Uh, anyways, I know- I know I told Mr. Stark I was gonna pass on the whole Avengers deal, but, um, I think he misunderstood that as me passing up on being a super-hero altogether?" He took another bite, chewing ignorantly into the speaker. His swallow came through the receiver like a dime plopping into the listener's ear. "So, basically, I'm calling to let you know that I'm still here for updates. Actually, I misspoke- I  _really_ want an update. Any sort of update. Even dinner would be nice. P-Preferably not with Aunt May, though- tell Mr. Stark that, I mean. Their relationship sort of creeps me out. That's it, I guess... unless the long-standing silence is another one of his tests. Is it another one of his tests? Ask him that, for me? Thanks!" He hung up at that, tossing his phone aside in favor of rubbing his face. He probably sounded like such a whiney, needy baby. He groaned at the thought. 

The sunset took his attention. Not only was it a strong sign that he should head home, lest May worry over him, but its multi-colored distraction fiesta tempted his overworked senses like a light bulb did a moth. It was pretty, anyway: visually pleasing. He leant back on the balls of his hands and sighed at it. With excitement finding its way into his life rarely as of late, the sunset inspired him to do what was most childish, and beg embarrassingly for whatever imaginary idea of a sun spirit he was having to grant him some dream of an adventure. When his real-life phone rang after his display of desperation, he jerked like a cat.

"Hello?" he answered breathlessly, the receiver once more too close to his mouth. The voice on the other end hissed. 

"Jesus, Parker, for a kid genius you really have no measure of the appropriate distance from a speaker," Happy talked fast, clearly at wit's end. Peter supposed they'd arrived at the part of the week where the man's inbox was near full, so he had no choice but to quiet him. 

"Sorry," the boy answered sheepishly, adjusting the phone so that his voice would come through clear and unbothersome. "You called back, though! I was just-"

"You 'were just' calling me repeatedly,  _I know_ ," Happy interrupted in a fit of irritation, "You're so lucky it's against my contract to block your number, Parker." There was a pause, and Peter could hear him sighing heavily, as though he'd regretted something he'd said. "Okay, whatever. Forget that I said that. I think I've got something for you to do." 

Peter, who'd sulked a bit at Happy's initial tone, perked up at that. "Woah, really? Did Mr. Stark give me an assignment?" he gushed. His hopes were irrationally high. He'd hyped up his next phone call from Happy to the level of a secret mission to save the moon, so at that point in his phone-call marathon anything less than a Stark-administered mission would disappoint.

Unfortunately for both of them, though, Happy didn't really have anything for Peter to do. The only reason he'd fed him false ideas of productivity was in the hopes that that would calm him down enough to bide time until something real came along. That, he'd realized after Peter's reply, had been a stupid idea. He shuffled around his desk, picking out a paper filed under anonymous tips to rattle off to the boy in the mean time. "Oh, yeah," he lied, "there's a scary rumor going around that a dishonorable-discharge from the special forces has gone rogue for some nasty mercenary work. Wade Wilson is the bad boy's name. All Mr. Stark wants you to do is follow him for a bit to make sure he isn't doing anything to endanger innocent lives. If you can bust him, you'd be an American hero." 

Peter's eyebrows folded. Fifteen-year-old boys were gullible, but not so gullible that they wouldn't recognize when out-of-character behaviors were being presented to them by the adults in their lives, or that they wouldn't catch ridiculous exaggerations of proposed gratitude. For instance: since when did Happy call Mr. Stark, well, Mr. Stark? That was Peter's thing. Was he mocking him? "Um, okay," he said slowly, regardless, "I'm just not so sure why he'd want me to take care of that. It sounds like something he'd tell me was too dangerous. Doesn't he think it's dangerous? Where is this Wade guy supposed to be, anyway?"

Happy tuned out Peter's rambling, for the most part. "New York City, actually. Some place called 'Sister Margaret's'?" he read off of the anonymous tip, raising an eyebrow. The report was vague, which usually meant the tip was a dead-end, so there wasn't much cause for concern of potential endangerment. "Anyways, stay out of too much trouble and  _quit blowing up my phone unless it's for emergencies_. Thanks so much!" 

 _Click._ Peter pouted a bit at being hung up on. He supposed it was karma for all of his abrupt and demanding voice mails. He ended the call before the receiver could start screeching in his ear. 

His eyes returned to the sunset. He felt slightly better at having something interesting to do, although he was a bit skeptical at the prospect of following around a mysterious mercenary with military experience to boot. His red-and-blue color scheme didn't exactly make him an enhanced human of the stealthy variety. Should he put together a special stealth operation ensemble for the endeavor? Aunt May owned the  _perfect_ black hoodie. He mulled over his attack plan for the following evening on the way back home, hoping in between ideas that his Aunt May had baked cookies.

 

* * *

 


	2. Skyfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Parker unlocks his stealthy side to investigate the anonymous tip at Sister Margaret's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh, i had so much fun writing the first chapter that I just had to get started on the second right away. i'm rarely this inspired to get ahead on a fic, so this is a good sign for all of us interested :D
> 
> i thought naming the title after a song from a bond soundtrack would be appropriate, somehow.

* * *

 

In every measure of the word, Peter Parker was a nerd.

After his phone call with Happy, he'd gotten home in time for curfew, cracked open his notebook, and hunkered down to research "Sister Margaret's" and the name "Wade Wilson". Whoever he was, his identity was air tight: the only "Wade Wilson"s online were fat-faced attorneys and creepy-smiled botanists, none of which had military backgrounds. Even with Ned's help via Skype the only information he'd scrounged up was that "Sister Margaret's" was an abandoned school for wayward children. The building had recently been purchased and converted into what could be assumed to be a bar, although the face of the establishment had been left unaltered. It was a shady enough location for a mercenary to hang around, for sure, so Peter felt confident that he was headed in the right direction. 

"Are you sure about taking this up, Pete?" Ned questioned nervously after a two-hour research session, his voice coming through staticky thanks to Peter's hasty, do-it-yourself modem installation. It was getting late, and the smell of freshly-baked lemon cake was tempting Peter to call it a night. 

"Yeah, yeah, of course," he responded, reclining in his seat and tapping his pen to his jaw mindlessly, "I wouldn't really worry about it. Mr. Stark assigned this to me personally, so it's got to be safe." He smiled reassuringly at the boy, who narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"Tony Stark, who installed programs named after 'training wheels' and 'baby monitors' into your super-suit, cherry-picked an encounter with a loose-cannon ex-military mercenary for you?" he questioned slowly. Peter frowned at that, having already had his confusions about the assignment. He rubbed his temples and switched Skype to full-screen.

"Ned, dude, it's really cool of you to care so much, but I-I'm alright, okay? I can chuck cars and climb walls: one guy who's good with his guns isn't going to faze me," he said smoothly, cradling a single knee to his chest. His resolve was quickly waning as the cake smell got stronger. "Anyways, I've  _really_ gotta let you go now. Aunt May baked and I don't want my share to get cold." Ned huffed, though based on the look in his eyes at the mention of May's baking he was in complete understanding.

"Alright. See you tomorrow," he grumbled, fiddling with his mouse to end the call. 

"See ya," Peter chirped before the call dropped, leaving him in deafening silence. The first few moments after a Skype call were always so eerie. He stood and stretched out his limbs, then shut and stashed his notebook so that  May had no chance of seeing what he'd written. In fact, it probably wasn't such a great idea to jot down all of his plans as Spider-Man in a spot that she had a chance of seeing in the first place. She'd slit his throat if she realized he was still plotting something risky after what happened with the Vulture, and dead boys couldn't enjoy lemon cake.

 

* * *

 

After school, which had dragged for ages what with his exciting plans for that evening, he'd jogged home to collect his notes and enough web fluid to sustain a small army of spider-people. His arsenal complete, he stuffed both into the pockets of his Aunt May's old black hoodie, which was conveniently tucked away under a number of things she hadn't worn since he was twelve. The hoodie, coupled with a pair of his own dark gray sweats, instilled a meager amount of confidence in him. 

Afterwards, he filled the time between his preparations and sunset with homework assignments. It was understandably hard to focus on Algebra with his impending mission, which in its own was an impossible task by the merit of how mind-numbingly boring the subject was to him. Once done, he slumped over his desk and fiddled with a ballpoint pen. He made shitty origami. He hung upside down from his bed post. He psyched himself out.

God, he was psyching himself out! He started thinking about how it felt to be pinned to the ground under the weight of a thousand pounds of concrete, how it felt to think that he was going to die alone. That wasn't fun nor cool, which was what he'd promised himself all of his thoughts would be like since the incident, for the sake of keeping his spirits up. He released his grip on the bed post and flipped so that his feet hit the ground first.

His heart felt heavy. He slumped onto his mattress and swallowed thickly around the knot in his throat. Behind him, the sunlight beneath his curtains dimmed. May would be home soon.

He had a job to carry out. Mr. Stark and Happy and now even Ned were counting on him to go through with it, and he wasn't about to let a bad memory that he'd lived through physically unscarred stop him from doing just that. He hopped to his feet and paced in front of his mirror, initiating his pep-talk phase. "You're Spider-freaking-Man, dude," he mumbled, running a hand through his hair, "You shoot webs that immobilize baddies for upwards of two hours. You've scaled the Washington Monument. You solve riddles in your sleep. There are babies that sleep in knitted blankets with your face on them. You can  _do_ this." He faced the mirror and took deep breaths, hopping from foot to foot. After a minute of that, he felt ready enough to depart.

Admittedly, he was still scared. Especially when he crawled out of his window, his mind flooding with the images of the dilapidated building he'd pored over the previous night. He could feel his heart beat picking up in his chest. The place was creepy! With Ned's assistance, he'd traced a number of forums that mentioned the location as a hot spot for mercenaries and thugs. If the place was as it was rumored to be, there would be major traffic in the area, and the faceless Wade Wilson would be lost in the crowd. He'd have to probe for information at the bar beforehand, carefully. His departure well underway, he already wished he'd at least brought the suit along so he had Karen to comfort him.

 

* * *

 

The building was just as intimidating as it had looked online- scratch that, in the darkness it was infinitely more intimidating. From where Peter was surveying the face of it, there was plenty of foot traffic. Big bearded men, scrawny hairless guys, hunched-backed coke-heads, and each and every typecast in between milled in and out, some smug and some angry. Most were drunk. Peter gulped.

He dialed Happy's number, going straight to voice mail as expected. "Hey, Happy," he started nervously, sounding younger than usual, "I'm at the place, and it looks super legit. I'm, um, I'm kind of scared, actually," he laughed at that, as if it were ridiculous, "Anyways, can you let Mr. Stark know that from now on maybe, uh, no bars? I'm kinda underage, you know. I-I get it if he can't be flexible there, really, I'm happy for the work," he turned his mouth from the receiver and muttered at himself, "Forget it. Thanks for listening, I guess?" He hung up with a sigh.

A current of wind picked up, treating him with NYC's signature biting chill. He retracted his hands into the hoodie's sleeves and let his teeth chatter. There was no easy way to go about getting into that place. No matter what, he was going to be a stupid kid with a stupid kid voice waltzing into a seedy bar with a stupid death wish. He swallowed around that knot again, closed his eyes, and finally talked himself into crawling down from the roof of the neighboring building.

The walk across the way was unsurprisingly tense. He had the hood pulled up over his head to hide his face, but he was still a small enough, scrawny enough guy in clean enough clothing to raise eyebrows. The typical traffic of people he'd observed from the rooftop continued, but up close he was overwhelmed by the addition of the figures' putrid smells and scattered voices. His thoughts turned hazy, and his head was ringing. He pinched his wrist to focus his overactive senses- there was  _way_ too much input for him to process. 

Eventually, he weaseled his way inside. He pressed his palm to a wall and coached his breaths, blinking quick so that he could pull himself together fast enough to get a good look at his surroundings. Neon lights, dank air, the musty smell of chalk, excited chatter, the clatter of a cue stick punching into a collection of balls. Peter was still overwhelmed, but he shouldered it. 

He practically tip-toed forward. A squinty-eyed latino man crowded his right side and snickered at him. It was obvious that each and every other person in the room were regular attendees of whatever was practiced there, and all of them were sizing up what they saw to be fresh meat. "Okay, okay, okay," he chanted under his breath. He bumped into a hulk of a man in his dizziness, earning himself an intimidating growl. "Not okay, not okay, not okay," he amended. He scurried toward the bar.

Before him, behind the counter, was a sandy-haired bartender. His eyes were big and unimpressed behind his thick-framed glasses, and his stature suggested he would be better fit hunched over a computer than wrangling a bunch of rowdy mercs in his run-down establishment. "You look _super_ fuckin' young," the man observed, cut-to-the-chase, "The hell are you doing here? You could call in, you know. I'll get you a flyer, or... something. Just don't get yourself killed here." 

Peter gaped for a moment. "Oh, I... This place isn't really on Google," he explained, rubbing his eyes dazedly. "I'm looking for somebody named Wade Wilson. Have you seen him? Could you describe him to me?" He leaned forward, resting his weight on his elbows. The bartender's eyebrows raised, and he laughed. 

"Shit, how many kids does Wilson deal with? Word spreads fast, huh? Somebody been harassing you, too? I mean, you're pretty cute, as a totally non pedophilic observation," he rambled, concluding the short speech with a sigh, "Fuck it, I don't care. His picture's on the wall of fame." He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb, then proceeded to polish up a glass he'd been working on cleaning before Peter had approached him.

Peter's eyes tracked where he'd gestured, scanned the mess of pictures, then locked on to the one captioned 'Wade'. He was a handsome man, mid-to-late thirties by the looks of him, who grinned at the camera the way only those who were either self-assured or apathetic did. Peter memorized every aspect of his face, from his sharp brown eyes down to his stubbly beard. Afterward, he wet his lips and furrowed his brow. "When's he gonna be here?" he pried. The bartender looked back up at him.

"I'm confused: you're still here," he said bluntly, "I showed you his picture, go fucking find him. You've got his scent, boy, now sniff away." He shooed Peter disinterestedly. Unfortunately, the boy was determined and stood his ground.

"Hey, sir, I'm not a dog," he protested, pouting slightly, "Can't you just tell me when he's gonna be back?"

"Hey! I'm not a 'sir'. My dad's a 'sir', and he's a dick," the man corrected, pointing a finger at Peter, "If you're so goddamn interested, the superstar's going to be back in, like, fifteen minutes. Good luck getting him to treat you as well as I have." He rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath about children. Peter hardened his gaze as best as he could with his kicked-puppy expression, then backed away from the bar in haste. 

He'd had enough of sticking around inside. He quickly fixed his hood, then stuffed his hands into his pockets and ducked out of the bar. He was going to return to the roof he'd climbed up to earlier and watch the premises for signs of Wade. The man's picture was stamped in his memory by then. Peter wondered whether he might be worse than the crop he'd already been exposed to, somehow. He sincerely hoped not.

 

* * *

 


	3. Boombastic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade Wilson makes it back to the home base after another night of fun; unbeknownst to him, a certain spider-boy is eagerly awaiting his return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so hyped up on dunkin donuts and positive comments and hip hop so basically if you want more just shower me in compliments kids
> 
> besides, i couldn't wait too long to write their first encounter :p

* * *

 

Peter settled in on the opposite building's roof top, phone timer counting down to the fifteen minute mark angry-bartender-man had given him. He laid himself out on his stomach, legs swinging behind himself absentmindedly while his eyes picked apart the incoming crowd. No sign of Wilson in the first five minutes. 

He propped his chin on his forearms and continued his diligent people-study. Distantly, and distractedly, he thought about how proud Mr. Stark would be of him for carrying out another task without a hitch. He might even pop the Avengers question again, if Peter was lucky- which, of course, he'd have to turn down. He just appreciated the prospect of being accepted into something so much bigger than himself; it made his stomach flutter with butterflies of excitement. 

His phone rang around the ten minute mark, earning him an unwanted degree of attention from the confused passersby below. He scrambled out of sight with his phone in hand. "Ned, this is a really bad time," he whispered anxiously into the receiver. The damage seemed to already be undone, though, as the crowd shrugged off the odd noise as a small blip in their nightly routine. Peter's shoulders sagged in relief. 

"Yeah, not Ned," Happy corrected, his voice full of an uncharacteristic amount of concern, "You're at Sister Margaret's right now?"

Peter peeked over the ledge, biting his lip in an effort to focus. "Mhm," he hummed affirmatively, "There's some really creepy guys out here. The report was a huge understatement." He could hear Happy muttering unpleasantly on the other line. He frowned slightly. "Is something wrong? Does Mr. Stark want me somewhere else? I can handle this, I swear-"

"Pete, the tip was supposed to be a dud," Happy interjected, "I just wanted to occupy you long enough for something to come along, so you'd let up a little bit on your phone diary." He could be heard sighing, the phone shifting while he wiped a hand over his face. "Just get out of there, kid. God only knows how dangerous this might be." 

On the other end, Peter went quiet. A million thoughts passed through his mind: he really was just some kid on the side that Mr. Stark was half-interested in, some disposable lackey that had a bad habit of talking off his associate's ear. This wasn't a special operation, this was a distraction. It felt like the breath had been punched out of him, and his stomach had been bloated by his disappointments. "I'm not going 'till I find Wilson," he mumbled, sniffing a bit. 

Happy huffed into the speaker. "Hey, this is no time for you to suddenly go lax, Parker. Wherever you are, it could be stupid dangerous. You're a fifteen year-old-kid- granted, a superhuman one, but that's moot in this situation- and a sketchy bar full of miscreants is no place for you," he lectured tiredly. 

Peter set his jaw. "I really can handle this, you know, whether you and Mr. Stark think so or not," he dismissed stubbornly, "I thought you realized that after the work I did with the Vulture."

"Which we didn't assign to you," Happy quickly countered, "because you're a  _kid_ , and imagine how devastated your aunt would've been if you'd died trying to stop that guy."

Peter responded with heavy silence. His thumb twitched near the 'end call' button. "That's not fair," he protested eventually, "You can't just dangle that in front of my face whenever you want me to squirm this way or that. Imagine- Imagine if I brought up your family every time you did something dangerous that you knew in your heart was right. Would you like that?"

"Peter-" Happy tried. The boy's attention was lost to him when, suddenly, the crowd down below got a bit rowdy. Peter took a look and spotted the man from the picture, smirking confidently and flipping around a pistol in his left hand, as if the implications of tossing around a weapon out in the open like that were totally pure. He turned into Sister Margaret's with a confident swagger, and was greeted by a round of drunken cheers. A thrill of adrenaline at the display turned Peter's cheeks pink. 

"I've gotta go, he's here," he interrupted hastily, pressing the end button before Happy could express his terror at the news. He put himself together, scrambled over to the side of the building on his hands and knees, then crawled down the shadowed side in a hurry, where no one could see him. A quick look up and down the alley put him in the clear. He landed on his feet with a soft  _thud,_ finding his bearings before he headed across the street for the second time that night. Like they had earlier, the sounds and smells of the impending crowd intensified as he approached Sister Margaret's, but that time he was prepared enough to handle it. 

It was easy to duck inside unnoticed with Wilson around. Most everyone was either occupied with pool, arguments, or drinking, and with the addition of his target even the bartender from earlier wasn't looking his way. He took an empty seat in a corner close to the two, focusing every bit of his enhanced senses to listen in on their conversation. He had to squeeze his eyes shut and sweat through the pits of the hoodie for it, but once he had- "...looking for you. He was, like, twelve. That wasn't one of your gross ex-boyfriend situations I got myself involved in, was it? You need to stop sticking your fingers in teenagers'-" Peter opened his eyes, rubbed them, and blushed.  _Gross_.

It was harder to focus the second time around. The most he could hear without it was Wilson laughing off something the bartender had said. Eventually, he broke through again:

> "-easel, my beautiful, sugar-plum fairy of a friend-"
> 
> "Dude, no, I'm not a  _fairy_ , I'm a fence. That's so-"
> 
> "You're  _my_ fairy," there was a pause, and it sounded as if he'd patted the other man on the cheek, "and I appreciate the heads up, but as we both know well, I can handle my minors."  
> 
> " _Nasty_ , dude! We really need to establish some boundaries in our relationship." 
> 
> "Yeah, whatever. You love it, probably get off on it secretly, you freaky fairy. So, where is this kid?" 

Peter tuned out the conversation on that note. His head hurt from all of the trouble he'd gone to for the sake picking up information. Needless to say, he was disappointed that all he'd uncovered from his efforts was that Wade had an unsavory sexual appetite. If he weren't already squirming in his seat from anxiety, he was after learning that.

It took him a while to get his bearings. He cradled his head in his hands, closed his eyes gently, and counted to ten. Usually, without Karen's assistance, he'd hurl after such a strain, but he was proud to say that his abilities had progressed enough that he hadn't. At last, with weary eyes, he looked up again. Wade was no longer at the bar. In fact, the bartender was staring straight back at Peter when he glanced his way, which sent an icy current of fear up his spine. He tore his eyes away at last, and sat before him in an all-too-casual manner was Wade Wilson.

"Hey, sweetheart," the man greeted, stirring the ice in his drink, "What brings a perky little ass like yours to an uncomfortable place like this?"

Peter gulped. 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit goes down next chapter ;)


	4. S.O.S

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A not-so-myterious third party makes Peter's stubborn decision to get the job done much more difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so it's been 48 hours and this is my fourth update???
> 
> ahhh i'm running on caffeine and my love of this gay love i'm kindling jesus take the wheel

* * *

 

> "Hey, sweetheart. What brings a perky little ass like yours to an uncomfortable place like this?"

Peter sputtered a bit at the unorthodox greeting. His cheeks felt a bit warm, which wasn't entirely unusual for him, but it was peculiar nevertheless. 

' _Busted_ _'_ was the first word that came to mind. Sure, he shouldn't've expected much success in sneaking around an ex-military man, but he had hoped at least that their first encounter would be somewhere less claustrophobic. He took a quick look around. The bartender caught his eye, and to Peter's bewilderment the man was watching their interaction amusedly. What a snitch!

"I... Mr. Wilson-" Peter started, holding out his hands in plain sight as a gesture of good will. Wade let out a short, hearty laugh. 

"'Mister'? Holy fuck, who trained you?" he exclaimed, both eyebrows raised. He swallowed down the contents of his glass in one go, then swished around the leftover ice in dissatisfaction. The bartender appeared suddenly, refilling the glass in exchange for a quick tip. 

"No one... sir," Peter responded, a bit slack-jawed. It was obvious that the man was well-respected, or at least well-connected, and that made him all the more intimidating. "I was- you're-"

Wade rolled his eyes a little. "Yeah, this is sad, kid. Never put out a hit on somebody before, huh? Don't worry, daddy Wade'll pop your cherry gently," he drawled, punctuating his filth with a crude wink. Peter recoiled. 

"Gross!" he blurted, shaking his head and cringing, "I'm- I'm not here to 'put out a hit'; I was sent here, t- to investigate you." He averted his eyes, electing to focus instead on the nearest game of pool. It was poorly executed, and he itched to correct the players. A pair of fingers snapped in front of his eyes and made him jump. He looked back at Wade with his face full of color. Peter refused to admit that the man's vulgarity had gotten to him, though- he was totally mature enough to listen to that stuff, right?

"There we go, baby-face. Now we're back in business," Wade cheered, downing his second drink. Like clockwork, the bartender and his money rotated once more. "I like eye contact when I'm dealing with people: it hits all the good spots." He grinned like the Cheshire cat. His smug stare made it obvious that Peter's embarrassment had been received by an unwanted audience. "Now, what's this about an investigation? You writing for the school paper or something?" 

Peter shook his head. "Nope. Tony Stark sent me," he lied, scrunching his nose up like an admonished child. Truthfully, the bottom of Happy Hogan's bag of shits to be given had sent him, but it was doubly satisfying to play into his original fantasies. Wade licked over his lips and stared at Peter, hard. 

"Stark? The tin-man?" he questioned, rolling his freshly filled glass between his fingers. 

Peter frowned. "Iron Man," he corrected, "and, yeah. I work closely with him." He crossed his arms and raised a brow, as if to say ' _your move_ '. Wade chuckled. 

"You're pretty funny. I like funny," he said, skirting a compliment, "but what's not funny is you wasting my time. I'm pretty much paid by the minute at this point in my 'career', so unless you mean to say that Stark's your sugar daddy, I'm gonna have to kindly request that you crawl back to your crib, sweetie." 

Peter shook his head at that, scoffing, "I'm not wasting anyone's time, and Tony Stark isn't my- my 'sugar daddy'. I mean, that's a stupid suggestion! He's, like, my boss- b-but I do work for him, not..." His face started to heat up again. Stupid Wade Wilson and his stupid, smug face. "I do  _c_ _lean work_ ," he amended, "Not that I care what you think."

Wade rolled back, pressing his free palm into his cheek. "I thought you'd be way more interesting than this," he mumbled, "but now you're just rambling. Go home, baby-face. I've already got a mental picture of your puppy-dog-eyes for the spank bank, so your fifteen minutes of fame are up."

Then, Peter was angry. "First of all, that's disgusting and irrelevant," he protested, curling his fingers into miniature fists, "And second-of-all, for someone who keeps picking on my age, you're acting more like a 'baby' than I ever have."

Wade straightened his posture at that, leaned closer, propped his chin on his forearm and smiled slightly. "Interesting," he mumbled.

Peter scowled. "What's interesting?" he demanded.

"You found your backbone," Wade replied smoothly, seeming to have leveled out considerably. He downed his third glass of liquor, dismissing the bartender before he could be given a refill. "Hell, I'm buzzed. Let's say Stark is your boss: what does the golden boy want to do with poor wittle Wade?" 

Peter blinked in surprise. The small breakthrough was almost worth celebration, but then he remembered that the only 'mission' he'd been given was to  _follow_ Wilson. And if Wilson did turn out to be entrenched in mercenary work- which he totally was- wasn't Peter supposed to bust him for it? He swallowed thickly. "He wants-"

"You to get your ass out of here," an unexpected third party interjected. Peter looked over his shoulder, and, lo-and-behold, there stood Tony Stark and a small detail of security. The commotion of the dive had made their arrival quiet, Peter reasoned, though the truth was probably that he'd been so preoccupied with his interrogation of Wilson that his senses had failed him. In fact, the dive seemed to have hushed considerably since the arrival of the suits.

The bartender approached them."Hey, douche-noses, what's the big idea? If you have business-" the man started. One of the detail crowded him, prompting him to adjust his glasses and lean back. "Holy shit, no hard feelings. You're kind of fucking with my business, is all- put your dick away, tough guy." 

Tony rolled his eyes. "I'm going to seriously need you to shut up," he addressed him, then pointed at Peter, "and I'm going to need  _you_ to get back home before I get your aunt involved."

Peter had been busy gaping at Tony for the majority of the conversation. Half of the time the man was traveling the globe for the sake of his business and super-hero affairs, sparing Peter the rare phone call or remotely controlled suit to appease him, and the rest of it was spent hundreds of miles away from him at the new location of the Avengers' base. Still, defying all logic, Tony Stark was there to rebuke him, in the flesh. He blinked fast, then stood quickly. "Yes, Mr. Stark," he blurted, "Sorry, Mr. Stark." 

Behind him, Wade threw his hands up and grinned in triumph. "You lied, baby-face," he chuckled, "'Mr. Stark' trained you. What a twist!"

The room seemed to chill several degrees as Tony placed a firm hand on Peter's shoulder, glaring vehemently at the mercenary scum who had the balls to mock them. "His name is Peter, and I swear to God, if you try to talk to him again I'll have your testicles sold to Donald Trump's grand-children under the pretense of deli meat," he snapped. 

A stroke of silence. Wade smirked. "Interesting," he remarked once more, holding his glass out to his bartender buddy. 

"Jesus- you're one of those 'last word' types? What the hell does that even mean?" Tony pressed, his lips twitching at one corner in aggravation. 

Wade shrugged, having checked out at that point. Peter had a bad feeling he knew exactly what the man had meant. When the mercenary's glass was full yet again, he took a long pull and started to hum a Spice Girl's song after he'd swallowed. 

"Psychopath," Tony muttered, steering Peter out of Sister Margaret's. The eyes of each and every person in the dive were on them now, some persons muttering and some gaping. "I never want you parading off like this again, Peter, you understand? You can't just dive into trouble whenever it suits your fancy."

Peter, who had been staring back at Wade wearily, finally found his voice again. "It did not 'suit my fancy'," he protested, "Happy told me you wanted me in there!" 

Tony shook his head. "Trust me, Happy's hand has been slapped, but I know for a fact that after he realized he screwed up he demanded you turn around. So what gives, Peter, huh? Why didn't you turn around?" he scolded. 

Peter bowed his head petulantly, his lips pursed. Tony's surprise appearance had lost its short-term glamor. "I wanted to prove to you both that I'm not just some kid in Queens," he mumbled, "that I'm worth your time." 

Tony was quiet for a while at that. His detail joined them at last, having apparently handled an earful from the mouthy bartender whose provided name was 'Weasel'. They lagged behind the two of them, offering privacy. "Look, kid, my dad was kind of an ass," he started speaking at last, "Expected the world of me, and whenever I crumbled he turned a blind eye. Do you get where I'm going with this?"

Peter blinked, looking up at Tony in confusion. "No, not really," he muttered.

Tony nodded. "If it seems like I expect very little of you, it's because I'm trying to let you breathe," he explained, giving a short pause so the new information could sink in. "I don't want you to take your successes as lightly as I have for most of my life, and I don't want you to get into the same fucked- sorry, um, 'screwed up' head space that I did over it. The short of it is that I'm trying to be a better influence on you than he was on me."

Peter's lips parted. He shut them, shook his head slightly. "But I'm not your kid," he pointed out.

Tony ruffled his hair. "Sure you are. You're  _a_ kid, and I look after you, so that makes you  _my_ kid," he reasoned.

Peter smiled warmly. "Makes sense," he murmured, leaning into Tony's side. 

"Alright," Tony said uncomfortably, clearing his throat and shifting away, "That's enough of that. Let's get you home." There was a new mirth to his eyes, though, as if Peter had melted something that had been icy in his heart for a long while.

For the time, Peter would forget about Wade, because he had the attention he'd originally desired. Maybe it was a bad idea to disregard the mercenary's ominous closing statement of 'interesting', and surely as hard as Peter tried to put his teasing words past him they would inevitably plague his intimate thoughts, but for the time, he had a more important male figure to concern himself with.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all good relationships start out dysfunctional, right?
> 
> btw: here's the relevancy of the dad!tony tag, my dudes


	5. Every Breath You Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter returns to his duties as "friendly neighborhood Spider-Man", and his bad feelings about putting on the suit dissipate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i've been naming all of the chapters after relevant songs, and i was wondering if I should make like a spotify playlist for it or something? That'd be pretty funny I think, except it'd be a fucking shit playlist lmao

* * *

 

Two weeks had passed since Peter's feeble attempt at proving himself.

After their short, heart-warming conversation about strong male figures, Mr. Stark had proceeded to utilize the twenty minute car ride back to Queens as an opportunity to properly lecture Peter about safety concerns and reaches in his abilities. "You're still a kid," he'd reminded, "but that's okay, and I don't think you get that that's okay, so I'll say it again:  _that's okay_." 

Peter only half-believed it, but that was surely better than disregarding the advice entirely. He'd refrained from hugging him on the way out. Maybe he never had his dad, and maybe he'd lost Uncle Ben, but he counted himself lucky to have Tony Stark. 

Aunt May had been waiting for him when he walked inside. She'd laughed about the hoodie, then made sure he knew he reeked like whiskey and cigarettes, and that that was suspicious and unacceptable. He'd assured her it hadn't been _his_ smoking and drinking that had caused the reproachful smell, but the smoking and drinking of the bar-goers _around him_. She hadn't taken that too well. Two weeks had passed without excitement for a reason: she'd punished him as soon as he'd fessed up about where he'd been and why. Peter never was a good liar. The smell never washed out of the hoodie, either. He was allowed to keep it by merit of it being unwearable for his aunt from that point on, which was nice. It served as a token for his survival of his short-lived time at Sister Margaret's.

Boredom aside, his time on house arrest gave him the opportunity to focus on his friendships and his studies. Michelle, in a shocking twist of fate, had invited a small collection of academic decathlon kids to a get-together at Olive Garden the coming Thursday. He'd found that he was quickly developing a pseudo-friendship with her, which was both a pleasant surprise and a good way to keep his mind off of missing Happy and Tony. Plus, when Peter got the chance, him and Ned met in the lab after school for secret suit improvements under the pretense of "just a chem project, Aunt May". Neither of them were good liars, but they found to their satisfaction that the combo of their general flustered-ness negated it altogether, and their dual efforts made for a convincing performance- thus, web fluid 2.0 was in the works!

His grades were still up to par, but beyond that, he was participating in class again with a fervor. It felt good to be back on his rightful throne as teacher's pet, disregarding the parts of his reign that involved Flash's rallying cry of "Penis Parker" outside of class. He was satisfied to say that Happy had heard word of his improved school performance through a proud Aunt May's status report, and to commemorate Peter's attentiveness he had sent him a simple, 'Good work.' Two words- score!

Still, he was anxious to get back in the saddle. Aunt May's inner worrier had been quelled by the Spider-Man-free weeks of news coverage- not including the "Where has the Spider-Man gone?" segments on NBC- but he knew that they  _both_ knew that that would only last so long. He missed the busy-work. Coverage of burglaries and shootings left a hole in his stomach, and it was obvious to those around him that something was eating him up inside. Besides, there was an added bonus to his suit-less period: paranoia. He felt naked without its defenses. He could swear that during his walks home from school someone was watching him, but that was stupid. 

Stupid, or 'interesting'?

He shook off the thought.

 

* * *

 

"Alright, brainiacs, let's empty these bread baskets," Michelle concluded another one of her half-hearted/ short-but-sweet speeches, raising her glass of water. 

"Hear, hear," cheered the rest of the group. All were in a particularly goofy mood after their pre-dinner shenanigans. The bread rolls and appetizers were quickly picked apart after the miniature toast, much to Ned's dismay. 

"Damn, they're all gone," the boy complained. Peter nudged a roll off of his plate to appease him, despite having the larger appetite. 

"Here, man, take mine," he said, smiling pleasantly. He was happy to be there regardless of the unfair distribution of their meal (Flash's plate looked like an imitation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa), because it had taken some serious begging to convince Aunt May to amend his punishment. After a leisurely evening with his friends, he would finally, _finally_ be home-free. 

Ned smiled at him gratefully. "Thanks. We'll have to ask for more," he said cheerfully, digging in to the small portion of food he'd managed to snag. Peter nodded distractedly. As much as he wanted to enjoy the idle chit-chat and inside jokes, mentally he already had one foot out the door. Besides, his neck felt a bit warm, which usually meant someone was staring at him and his enhanced senses were being engaged. He glanced over his shoulder. The only person sat behind them had their face shielded by a menu. He frowned slightly. 

"How about you, Parker?" Michelle questioned, spearing a cherry tomato onto her fork. Peter's head whipped around. 

"I- I'm sorry, what?" he stammered, blinking at the rest of the table's occupants. They were used to his spacey behavior by then, so they chuckled softly. 

"Typical Penis Parker," Flash snickered, "Listen much?" He grunted when his rib cage caught Michelle's not-so-subtle nudge. 

"What are your plans for the end of the school year? Finals are coming up fast," she filled in, biting into her tomato after-the-fact. She looked at him attentively. Peter shrunk a little under the attention. 

"The most I have planned is to wrap it up with my grades in-tact," he said dismissively, fixing Michelle with an awkward smile. When no one seemed impressed by that, he added on a whim, "but I was thinking of joining the newspaper club. I do photography... sometimes." Half of a lie: on his twelfth birthday May had gifted him an old camera in the hopes that it would turn into a hobby, and he used it for fifteen minutes to document a dramatic series he had since dubbed 'The Destruction of Lego Kingdom'. Damn, he missed Lego Kingdom. Beyond that collection of pictures, though, the only camera-work he had to show for was his cinematography: his Spider-Man vlog.  

Ned narrowed his eyes at him. "You don't-" he started. He grunted when Peter treated him with the same nudge Michelle did Flash moments earlier. 

Michelle nodded a bit, satisfied with the answer. "Maybe I could help you join. I doodle political cartoons for the back page of the paper sometimes," she offered casually with a shrug, dropping her eyes back down to her salad to deign half-interest. Peter supposed he wouldn't mind one more small activity on his plate. 

"Well, sure," he accepted, smiling more assuredly, "That'd be cool." He didn't notice how happy he'd made Michelle, because she didn't show it. The waiter dropped off three of their meals and a replacement bread basket. Ned appeared to quickly got over the pain his friend had inflicted on him with the presence of more buttery, salty starters. 

When Peter got the chance to look over his shoulder again, the person behind them had disappeared. Weird. 

 

* * *

 

Peter had never been so happy to overhear a burglary report on a police radio. 

Sure, it probably wasn't ethical for him as the heroic Spider-Man to wire into a private line for the NYPD, but it ensured that he would get each and every scoop in time to put a stop to whatever crime was the latest. Ned had helped him figure it out during his off-period, and for the time being it appeared in the form of a clunky earpiece sewn into the fabric of his mask. He was fairly certain Mr. Stark would reprimand him for defacing his work. The benefits were still well worth it. 

He crawled out through his window, even though Aunt May was bound to find out that the Spider-Man was active once more later on the news. She'd admitted to him a little while ago that she realized his powers and the way he chose to use them were a part of his identity, but she would prefer that he stuck to ground level purse/ bicycle rescue operations until he was older. Certainly, he would continue to reach higher than that, but he would at least avoid the more dangerous, Avengers-level work for her sake. He really should stop referring to them as the Avengers, though; they were more like "47.5% of the Avengers plus a couple of new guys" after the Sokovia Accords. 

He made haste in arriving at the scene of the crime, surveying the small jewelry store that was being burgled beforehand. The police radio let out a bit of static, then reported, "Nearest dispatch 5 minutes from the location, incoming." That should be big enough of a window for him to swoop in and save the day, he thought. 

"Karen, can you give me an idea of who we're dealing with?" he requested, focusing the lens in his mask so that his eyes passed over the faces of the three burglars seamlessly. 

"Two of the targets have criminal records," she reported, "Jack Gardner and Anthony Vasquez, both charged with counts of grand larceny. The third target is unknown; caucasian male, 20-25 years of age based on appearance." 

Peter nodded. "Thanks, Karen. Can you make the switch to web grenades real quick? I've got an idea," he requested. A mechanic noise sounded from his web shooters, and Karen's system chimed affirmatively. 

"Of course," she asserted, "Web grenades activated. Would you like me to activate instant kill mode, as well?" 

"Again, I'm going to have to strongly suggest you ease up on the kill-mode stuff," Peter groaned, making the leap between buildings so that he was situated above the entrance of the jewelry store. As expected, the burglars were making their getaway well before the police cruiser was destined to show up. From experience Peter knew that guys like them operated in packs, each in the group secretly reasoning that they could drop the weight of a single member in time to utilize the sacrifice for a smooth getaway. It was a scummy move befitting a predictable bunch of scumbags like the ones he was dealing with. 

The one identified as Jack bounced out first, bearing the weight of a sack that could easily put him in for 5 more years of grand larceny. His face dripped with sweat. "Come on, hurry it up. I'm not gonna sit here waiting for you jackasses all night," he hollered. The other two bozos in his company came out panting, and without hesitation Peter launched his grenade. The men shouted, hunkering down as they were temporarily incapacitated. Peter hopped off of his perch and waved teasingly.

"Hey, guys! Sorry to swing in unannounced, but something gave me the suspicion that this stuff doesn't belong to you," he mocked, tilting his head. "Karen, can you switch to spider webs? I'm not so sure what I've got on them as of now will hold up." 

"Of course, Peter," she assented once more, and another mechanized sound and chime let Peter know that the change had been executed smoothly. He moved around the gang in a quick three-sixty, bolstering the webbing that had them temporarily secured. They cried out their protests. 

"It's the god-damned spider-kid!" shouted the one Peter recognized as Anthony, "What the fuck are we supposed to do now?"

"You really screwed the pooch on this one, Carter," Jack added, seething, "Why the fuck I ever trusted an amateur like you-" 

Police sirens interrupted their squabble. Peter launched a web in the direction of a nearby building, sparing the bunch one last teasing wave. "It's been a 'blast'," he said cheerfully, "but I've really gotta get going. And it's Spider- _Man_ , for the record, boys. Say it with respect." Nothing hit the spot for him like a satisfying clincher and a pun. He swung away seamlessly, laughing out loud on a rush of adrenaline. Flashlights illuminated his retreating figure, and the distant shouts below let him know that the police had gotten a good look at his gift-wrapping. 

"Suspects found incapacitated; merchandise secured," a voice announced through his staticky ear piece, "You're not gonna believe this, but the Spider's back." 

Peter grinned the whole way home. He felt no eyes on him at that, peculiarly enough. His double lives had swapped levels of paranoia, he supposed. 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a little bit of a filler, but we're getting there, kids


	6. Stayin' Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's pride clashes with Aunt May's fears, leading him to look for a shoulder to lean on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okayokay so this will probably be another filler

* * *

 

When Peter crawled back in through his window, Aunt May was waiting for him. He lost his grip on the wall and fell on his ass in his surprise. "May!" he exclaimed, bouncing to his feet and yanking the mask off, "What're you- I can explain, I was- Mr. Stark-"

She shook her head at him, standing slowly. "I let you off the hook early," she started sternly, her voice wavering toward the end, "and the first thing you do? You intercept a couple of officers on the way to the scene of a  _burglary_. Did you know those men were armed?" Her brow furrowed, her arms crossed, and her lip wobbled the way Peter hated. He hated it, because it meant she was going to cry. 

His posture sunk. He moved toward her, but she held up a hand. Crestfallen, he fiddled with the mask to release some of his mounting stress. "How'd you find out?" he asked, "There weren't any reporters there, I didn't see-" 

"You left your webs all over the place, Peter, of course they'd know it was you regardless of whether they were there to witness it firsthand," May said, quickly, hysterically, gesturing wildly with her left hand. With her right she pinched her nose, a habit she'd picked up from her late Italian mother. 

He dropped his eyes, his throat bobbing when he swallowed thickly. "I didn't think it'd hit you this hard," he mumbled. It was an ignorant statement, almost a lie. He'd known before he decided to jump straight back into the suit what it would entail. May had expressed countless times what his safety meant to her, why he should wait until he was an adult before he started throwing himself into such risky situations. 

May laughed humorlessly. "Peter, I don't think you heard me," she said louder, moving to his side and latching onto his chin firmly. Her grip wasn't painful, but the look in her eyes when she guided his gaze back up to her face was. "I asked you if you knew they were armed- did you?"

He shook his head slowly. "No," he whispered. 

She blinked at him. "You didn't use the super computer in this thing to check that for you?" she pressed, poking at the emblem in his suit. It went slack on his body in response. 

His shoulders slumped in shame when the realization of how careless that had been slowly dawned on him. "No," he repeated, somehow softer. 

May's lip twitched. "Why?" she breathed, "It would've taken two seconds. Why did you put your life after a couple of stupid bags of jewelry?" 

Peter's brow furrowed. "Because I thought it was right," he said firmly. 

May teared up in response. "You're just like Ben," she murmured, releasing his jaw and turning away. With her back to him, Peter could see her shoulders shake slightly. He felt a little dizzy, and his throat was spasming oddly. He recognized both feelings as symptoms of guilt. He couldn't take watching her cry, so he ran a hand through his hair and turned away selfishly. 

"I need the room," he croaked, "Please." May shot him a betrayed look, and on her way out she slammed the door. It was an unspoken, ' _We'll talk about this later'_.

Peter shed the suit, which was already hanging limply on his body after the emblem's feature had been activated, and chucked it into his closet frustratedly. He sunk to his knees. He tugged at his hair. It had been a bad idea for him to jump straight back into what he used to do, to continue to bust criminals the way he used to before May found out his secret, but it was a part of who he was. That night, he'd felt right for the first time in months, finally continuing to use his powers the way he felt he should- by busting lowlives like the ones who'd killed his Uncle Ben- but now yet another curveball had been pitched and, once again, he'd lost all direction.

First, he wanted to talk to Tony. Mr. Stark knew what it was like to have to choose between the happiness of his loved ones and the fire in his heart. Mr. Stark cared about him considerably, as Peter had realized recently, and that put him right after Aunt May on the list of people he most trusted. He dialed Happy repeatedly, each call going straight to voice mail. His lip wobbled.

He refused to leave a message, to be a nuisance, but by call number five he was whimpering, "Happy, can I please talk to Mr. Stark? I promise I won't bug you for a whole week if you get me through to him. It'll only take a f-few minutes." The phone screeched in his ear, announcing that Happy's inbox was full. Peter tossed the stupid thing onto his bed resentfully, then rubbed a hand over his face. 

He needed to walk it off, that was all. He just needed to put on some warm, comfy clothes and get some fresh air. He dressed himself in a pair of frayed and faded jeans, topped it off with a favorite sweater, then crept back out the same window he'd tumbled in through moments ago. 

Night slowly swallowed up the sky like an ink bottle that'd been knocked over, bleeding darkness over a baby-blue canvas. Peter stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets and shivered. Maybe he should've considered an additional jacket. It was still pretty cold for April, but such was nighttime in New York. He blinked until his vision settled. As his eyes focused, he became distracted and faltered.

Like it had earlier in the restaurant, his neck felt warm. He glanced over his shoulder as he walked, slowly. A hooded figure was following him. He began to make excuses for its peculiar presence, including the typical,  _'We're walking the same way'_. He even changed directions on impulse to prove it, but the figure continued its pursuit. He picked up the pace a few, and so did the figure. He stopped, then turned around to face it.

The figure approached. Its face came under a streetlight, and it was Wade Wilson. "Baby-face," he purred, "What a coincidence?"

Peter wiped his eyes quickly, blinking in a mixture of fear and bewilderment. "What the hell? You're following me?" he exclaimed, taking a single step back. His heart beat picked up. He'd left his room in a state of total defenselessness, which of course excluded his innate ability to jump at crazy heights and stop three-thousand pound cars with his bare hands. Still, a gunshot would beat a strong, bouncy teen any day.

Wade tilted his head at Peter. "Well, following's an interesting way to put it. I prefer to call it 'keeping tabs'," he said nonchalantly, "Papa Stark seems to care about you an awful lot, so I wanted to know what makes you special. So far, so boring." 

Peter blinked at him. "You had a job today," he observed, which at first seemed out of place considering they were in the middle of discussing the fact that Wade had been stalking him. It meant something more to him, though.  

Wade raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say that? Do I reek of satisfaction?" he questioned. 

Peter shook his head, turning away. "Nope," he said, "You must've been busy working during the 'interesting' part of my day." It was good to know Wade hadn't been around while he was arguing with Aunt May, but it was of more import knowing that he hadn't been lurking below when Peter had put on or taken off the suit. 

Wade pursued him, clearly intrigued. "Woah, hang on there, sweetheart, don't walk away from me right before the climax," he said with urgency, placing a hand on Peter's shoulder. The boy jerked away and glared at him, with plenty of reason. 

"Don't touch me! You're a creep," he spat, "Leave me alone- and  _stop following me_." 

Wade rolled his eyes. "I'm only returning the favor here," he dismissed, "You spy on me, I spy on you. I like to get to know my fans." He pursed his lips, letting his hand fall back to his side.

Peter flushed slightly. "It's not the same," he protested lamely, "That was one night," he paused, his nose crinkling, "and you were the guy at Olive Garden, weren't you? How much of my life have you seen?"

Wade took a breath, then chuckled it back out. "You're pretty observant, huh? No wonder you're such a star student," he purred, "But don't worry, I haven't seen much: just some after-school clubs, a couple of lunches, and that one time you lip-synched to a Bee Gees song- great moves, by the way." 

Peter dropped his eyes embarrassedly. "That's invasive. Quit it," he demanded. 

Wade nodded. "Absolutely," he agreed, "but only on one condition: you tell me why you've been crying." 

Peter shook his head in disgust. "My privacy is nonnegotiable," he said firmly. 

Wade looked almost impressed. He put his hands in his jacket pockets casually. "Well, gee, Petey, when did you get so confident?" he countered, and with that came a heated silence. 

Peter bit his lip. He was losing his resolve quickly. Wade was creepy, but he was present, and Peter was desperate for someone to talk to. Plus, there was an undeniable benefit to ranting to someone he could care less about: if he came on too strong, he didn't have to worry about the bad impression he'd made later. "Okay, I'll tell you," he huffed, "but not here. It's creepy and cold out here, and I really want some hot chocolate."

Wade grinned. "It's on me, sugar baby," he insisted. 

"I already told you," Peter groaned, "Tony Stark is  _not_ my sugar daddy!"

 

* * *

 

The two of them were sat in a back corner of Starbucks, Peter's left side flanked by a drafty window. He nursed his cup of cocoa with the lid off, blowing on it gently. Wade seemed content to watch, which made him all the more creepy. At least Peter got a free hot drink out of the whole ordeal. Regardless of the outcome of their encounter, though, he fully intended to tattle on him afterward. 

After a few minutes, Wade leaned closer to him, his eyes full of something warm but otherwise indecipherable. "So, baby-face, why the waterworks?" he questioned. 

Peter set down his cup with a huff. "Can we bench the nickname for a bit? I'm kind of looking for a serious conversation," he mumbled. 

Wade shrugged. "I'll give it a shot, but if whatever you have to say gets too heavy for me I'll put it back in the game," he compromised. 

Peter rolled his eyes slightly. "Sure," he sighed. A beat of quiet passed, wherein he took the time to glance out at the crescent moon. Wade's eyes never left his face, he could feel them. "I got into some trouble with a couple of bad guys," he began, "even though I told my aunt that I'd put that kind of thing past me, and I made her cry." He looked back to the mercenary at that.

Wade shrugged. "I feel like I need more info," he said bluntly. 

Peter picked the cup back up and sipped cautiously. His tongue felt hot and tender for it, but the brief sweetness made it well worth it. For better or for worse, he started to unload: "Well, if you really want a full idea of how shitty the situation is, my Uncle Ben was shot to death roughly- well, almost a year ago-"

"Baby-face," Wade blurted. Peter gaped at him. "Sorry, I was just totally unprepared for how quickly that escalated. Continue." 

Peter locked his jaw. His eyes felt wet. He hadn't wanted to open up about his uncle's death in the first place, hadn't even told Tony, yet there he was spilling his guts to a grown-ass idiot. What was he thinking? He should just take the cocoa, go home, and forget all about the situation. 

Wade sucked in a breath and crossed his arms uncomfortably. He looked like he was struggling with himself. "Please, continue," he said with an uncharacteristic gentleness, and in an odd way it was obvious that he was trying his hardest to be genuinely apologetic. 

Peter took another sip to warm himself up, then picked up, "My uncle died during a burglary. They were waving a gun in my Aunt May's face, a-and he moved too quick, so they got scared and shot him." Peter took a break to clear his throat and rub his eyes. "Anyways, now I sort of try to help people like him, people who are caught in an unfair situation, whenever I can, but May hates that. She gets worried that I'll end up dead, too, so she- she suffocates me." 

While Peter took his third sip, Wade added to lighten the mood, "I'm sure that's no exaggeration."

Peter was unamused. "Sure, there are less dramatic words to use, but that's the one I chose, okay?" he said defensively, "And maybe she is just trying to protect me, but it makes me feel trapped. I've got this terrible guilt, because I know it kills her to think- you know, to think that I might die before she does, too." He squeezed the cup slightly. "And it sucks," he added.

Wade nodded a bit at that, cradling his arm. He looked thoughtful. "It sure sounds like it does," he admitted. He glanced in the direction of the barista, then back at Peter. He tapped the boy gently on the forearm. "I'm going to get you some cake, and when you're done eating that, I know a great churro place. You can vent all you want." 

Peter nearly cracked a smile. For a dick, Wade was acting oddly sweet. "Okay," he said softly, "Sounds good." 

Wade grinned. "You mispronounced 'orgasmic', baby-face," he corrected, rising to his feet with an unnecessary swagger. There was that douche Peter knew so briefly. For whatever reason, it helped him find his smile. 

"Don't push it," he denied. His cheeks were pink. He blamed the cold.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haaaa i fuckin straight up lied B)


	7. Womanizer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wade sees to walking Peter home after their night out together, and Tony finally finds the time to call his favorite spider-kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part of me is convinced i started writing this fic so i had an excuse to start off my day with an ungodly amount of britney spears

* * *

 

After three complimentary treats and plenty of crying about his problems, Peter was surprised to say that he'd began to like Wade. Granted, the man killed people for a living and couldn't go two minutes without cracking an inappropriate joke, but when he applied himself to somebody his listening skills were commendable. He gave good advice, too: "I have to say, Petey, I've not had such a glamorous family life myself, but I do know this: when somebody loves you for longer than a favorite food or a TV show, that love isn't going anywhere." It made sense to him the same way Tony's hot-and-cold caring did. 

On the walk back home, he thought of something that he couldn't let go. "How'd you find me, anyway?" he asked. 

Wade shrugged, smirked a little. "Well, unlike myself, you're not so hard to track down. I searched the terms 'Peter', 'high school', 'NYC' on Google, and an article about your academic decathlon team was the fifth thing to come up," he explained matter-of-factly, "You should smile more, by the way. Your picture in that article hit me right in the ooey-gooey places." He pointed to his heart. 

Peter rolled his eyes, finding himself flustered yet again. "Give me more reasons to, and I might just do it," he huffed. 

Wade grinned. "I like a challenge," he purred. When the apartment came into view, he placed a careful hand on the small of Peter's back and guided him toward it. A jolt of electric heat slithered up Peter's spine, a product of his magnified teenage sensitivity. "Here we are, sugar-lips, home sweet home."

Peter's nose curled. "'Sugar-lips'?" he repeated, affronted. 

Wade winked and said, "Because your smile's so damn sweet." He gave the boy's behind a playful pat. "Well, I bid you  _adieu._ You better scamper back up there before your auntie realizes you're not around." He crossed his arms and looked at Peter smugly, who gawked in exchange. Had he really spent  _hours_ talking to this guy, and  _enjoyed it_? The answer was, astoundingly, yes. 

"Yeah, I guess I should," the boy squeaked, shaking his head, "G'bye, Wade." He used the fire escape, for sake of keeping appearances. 

Wade waved with just his fingers, seemingly satisfied by Peter's response. "Bye, kid," he returned. When Peter had disappeared inside of his window- which he promptly locked shut and guarded from potential future peepers with his low-quality blinds- Wade took out his phone. The number he needed was on speed-dial. "Hey, big-mouth, it's your favorite," he said cooly, "I think I've got that in on Stark Industries you've been squirming in your panties for. Call me back."

 

* * *

  

Once Peter had situated himself, he emerged from his room in search of Aunt May. She was where he'd predicated she would be: curled up on the couch with her favorite Ben & Jerry's ice cream, watching _The Bachelor_ on re-runs. He sat carefully beside her, and she gave him a short glance in acknowledgement. With a quick click of a button, the volume on the television was muted. 

Peter wet his lip, reminding himself of what Wade had told him about love. Strangely, the memory of their conversation comforted him. "When I went out tonight, I wasn't thinking," he admitted, "Well, I was, but I wasn't thinking about the right things. I shouldn't've have jumped straight into trouble the way I did, and I'm sorry for it." 

May nodded a bit at that. "You're damn right, you shouldn't have," she mumbled, taking off her glasses so she could rub her eyes. "Oh, but if Ben could see you now he'd be so proud." She left the hand on her face, smiling at Peter bittersweetly. He blinked back in confusion. "You're my boy," she croaked, "You'll always be my boy. But now you're the world's boy, too, and I hate it, but I can't escape it." She blinked to clear up her teary eyes, wiping away the product from her cheeks. 

Peter leaned close to hug her, his eyes glistening with the evidence of his empathy. She held him tight. "I-I promise I'll keep it ground level from here on out," he offered, his chin tucked over her shoulder, "a-and if I so much as think there might be a gun involved, I'll turn tail." 

She shook her head. "Don't," she whispered, "I can tell what you do means a lot to you, and it makes me feel like a monster to see you as down as I have for the past couple weeks. Go do what makes you happy, Peter." She kissed his forehead gently, her fingers carding through his hair. He smiled softly.

"Thank you," he murmured, "I love you, May." 

"I love you, too," she responded. After a moment, she chuckled. "We're such drama queens, right?" Peter lifted his head and grinned at her lopsidedly, laughing along. He felt better for the touch of humor. May lifted her ice cream and offered him a spoonful. "Chocolate brownie? It's really good."

Peter raised a brow. "I though chunky monkey was your favorite?" he questioned. 

She shook her head, petting his hair. "Not anymore. My palette's changed," she said simply. Peter was quiet for a moment in awe. Wade should quit his day job to pursue philosophy, he thought to himself.

 

* * *

 

After sharing his thoughts on the following three episodes of  _The Bachelor_ with May (which were essentially "this is stupid"), he called it a night and headed back up to his room. It was one in the morning on a Saturday, so he had no concerns about his sleeping schedule. He flopped onto his bed with a sigh. 

The day had been exhausting: he'd had an early start for school, three assessments throughout his classes, chess club obligations, the academic decathlon dinner, a burglary to bust, an argument with Aunt May, and concluded the night with free food and three episodes of shitty reality TV. He needed his rest, for sure, but when his phone buzzed with Happy's contact on the screen, he knew he wasn't going to be sleeping anytime soon. 

"Hello?" he answered drowsily, flipping on his lamp in the hopes that the light source would help keep him awake. 

"Hey, kid," Tony greeted warmly, his voice slow with caution, "Were you sleeping? The time difference between us right now is tremendous."

Peter was too excited to hear from Mr. Stark to care about the disruption of his phone call. "I was about to," he said dismissively, "but it's whatever. What's up?"

"I don't know," Tony responded confusedly, "You called me. Are you okay? Should I be concerned?"

Peter remembered his pathetic messages from earlier, and he cringed. "Yeah, I'm fine," he assured him, "Me and Aunt May had a little bit of a disagreement, but it's all sorted now." He bit his lip. He still wanted to talk to him, but he knew realistically that the call was meant only to address an emergency. 

Tony sighed on the other end of the line. "Okay, that's good," he said, seemingly distracted for the moment, "You let me know if you have anything else... any more trouble. Got it?" A heated conversation could be heard transpiring in the background.

"Yeah," Peter said softly. He reached to turn off his light. It sounded like _their_ conversation was over. 

Tony hung in there, though, for whatever reason. "Listen, how about I call you tomorrow around lunch? Skype?" he suggested.

Peter let his hand fall back to his side. He was appeased by the offer, for the moment. "Tomorrow, or today?" he questioned.

Tony huffed, "Kid, I'm in California- tomorrow." There was a pause, and Tony's muffled voice shouted something that quieted the background conversation. "Sorry, Avengers business."

Peter smiled slightly. "The time difference isn't so big after all," he chuckled, "Skype sounds good, I'll talk to you then." He bit his lip. "By the way, I spoke to Wade Wilson today." It was an impulse, exhausted decision to let the information loose, but he figured it would be for the better, in case he suddenly disappeared at a later date by the hands of his shockingly considerate stalker. 

"I'm sorry, _what_?" Tony exclaimed. Peter cringed once more.

"Bye, Mr. Stark!" he spoke with forced cheer.  _Click._

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a short shitty one but it'll get us where we need to go


	8. Take Me Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a grueling Skype call with Tony, Peter gets invited out to see a movie with his newest friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had the idea for this chapter during a 3 hour car ride and even though i'm exhausted i want it DONe

* * *

 

Eleven hours after crashing on his bed, Peter woke up to the smell of maple syrup. He rolled onto his back with a grunt. Drool had plastered his pillow to his cheek, which was always a pleasant situation to wake up to. He sat up and blinked blearily. The blinds were still closed, so he had no way of telling whether it was early morning or late afternoon. It felt oddly as if he'd been knocked out with a tranquilizer. 

He rose to his feet, knees wobbling a little at first, and made his way to his window. After a restful night and with his long talk with Wade in mind, he felt comfortable to lift the blinds as he usually would. Clearly, he depended too heavily on the sunrise as a wake-up call. His digital clock confirmed that it was well past twelve. He wondered absently why Aunt May hadn't woken him up out of frustration. 

Never mind that; the smell of maple syrup had become less a blessing and more a concern. Had he overslept and let perfectly good pancakes get cold? Before he checked, he changed into a comfortable pair of pajamas and left last night's clothes in a disorderly, forgotten pile. 

The kitchen was clean except for a lonely platter of pancakes. Peter mentally reprimanded himself for his grievous breakfast crime. He stuck the platter in the microwave reluctantly, knowing that no matter the fact that they wouldn't come back the same, they couldn't very well go to waste, either. 

He stuck a fork between his teeth as a placeholder while the plate was busy sucking up radiation. In the meantime, he spotted a slightly sticky note on the counter where the pancakes once were. ' _Pancakes out, last night's lasagna in the fridge,'_ it read, ' _Be back at 7.'_ Signed, ' _Aunt May <3'_. Peter frowned slightly. It bothered him that she needed to work on the weekends, especially considering the things she provided for him regardless of their financial situation. He hoped that she wasn't spreading herself too thin.

The microwave beeped. He retrieved his pancakes and headed back into his room to get some work done over lunch. He hadn't forgotten the Skype call he'd been promised, of course, but that was the sort of thing he had come to realize was too unrealistic a vow to fit into Mr Stark's busy lifestyle. 

He logged on to his computer, licking syrup off of his fork after his third bite of pancake. Surprisingly, he had three missed calls from Stark Industries' business account. His excitement fizzled when he remembered the way last night's phone call had ended. He hesitated to call back. Fate made the decision for him, though, and a fourth call from Tony announced itself. He picked up after three anxious seconds of listening along. "Hey, Mr. Stark," he greeted, licking pancake remains from the corner of his mouth. 

Tony had clearly taken the time to groom and dress himself, making Peter feel semi self-conscious in his Power Rangers pajama shirt. The man raised an eyebrow at him and said, "I'm going to put my inevitable lecture on hold for the moment- did you just wake up?"

Peter nodded, cutting himself a big bite of pancake so his mouth would be full for longer. He was not looking forward to the lecture he'd earned himself. "Yeah, actually. Was it the bed head that gave it away, or the breakfast food?" he joked, showing off his plate of pancakes with a goofy smile in hopes of posing a distraction. 

Tony was clearing biting back a laugh, looking pained over it. "Hey, don't you hit me with that goofy good-kid shit, Peter-- I'm mad at you. What were you doing fraternizing with Wade Wilson?" he grilled. 

Peter took his time chewing, sinking a little in his seat. He went as far as to take a pause after he swallowed, yet the fierceness in Tony's eyes remained. "Well, I was just taking a walk to blow off steam-- 'cause like I told you, Mr. Stark, the argument I got into with my Aunt May, it really cut me deep-- and he just- he was there," he explained. 

"He was there?" Tony repeated, leaning closer to the camera, "What do you mean 'he was there'?"

Peter was really starting regret sharing the situation with Mr. Stark. Despite how eager he had been to tattle at the start of his quality time spent with Wade, the man had been a big help to him in the absence of everyone else. "Well, funny story," Peter started, staring down at his plate while he picked his food apart nervously, "Wade's been following me around, it turns out." He gave it time, knowing well that once the information sunk in at last Tony would--

" _He's been following you_?" the man exclaimed, "Peter, what the hell? Do you have heart-to-hearts with all of your stalkers?" He looked beyond fury, grounded only by his concerns for Peter's well-being. 

Peter looked up for a moment, his face flushed red from embarrassment. "No, not really," he defended, coming across slightly whiney, "but you weren't there, okay? He's like a snake charmer! Plus, I-I was really upset, and you weren't answering my calls." 

Tony paused. "Oh, I see," he said bitterly, "this is  _my_ fault." 

"No, I didn't say that," Peter groaned, setting his plate aside and holding his hands out in exasperation. "All I was trying to do was paint a picture of the situation for you. Like, imagine having the longest day of your life, coming home to your favorite person in the world crying, and then the first person you see is some charming wildcard. What was I supposed to do? Say, 'Thanks, man, but I'll pass on the no-strings-attached ranting session you're offering me'?"

"Absolutely!" Tony exclaimed, "That's absolutely what you were supposed to do! Peter, that man kills people professionally, with no remorse, and now he's stalking you. This could be serious." 

Peter wasn't up for heeding logic. He leaned back and glared at the screen, feeling himself sink into a bad bout of teenage rebellion. "I thought this Skype call was meant to be a chance for us to catch up, not for you to reprimand me," he grouched. 

Tony's jaw dropped. There was a strange look in his eye that Peter scarcely caught, as if he'd just witnessed something that made him feel very old and very guilty for something. "Well, I thought you'd have the common sense not to have a casual hang with a cold-hearted killer who, by the way, is  _following you around_ , but I guess I've got to brush up on my gut feelings about people! _"_

"I guess so!" Peter yelled in return. His cell phone started ringing suddenly, and the term ' _saved by the bell'_ came to mind. "I've actually got to go now, Mr. Stark," he said coldly, "I'm getting a call." 

Tony's eyes went wide. "You listen to me, young man, if you hang up on me right now-" he barked. Peter hung up defiantly. He shut down his computer, then picked up the call without so much as glancing at the caller I.D.

He slid the icon on his screen to receive the call, still heated from the short-lived argument. "Yeah?" he greeted grumpily. 

"Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed," the voice on the other side of the line noted amusedly. It was Michelle.

Peter sighed, cradling a single knee against chest. He took a deep breath. He definitely wasn't the type of person to have a temperamental break, let alone snap at someone who didn't deserve it. He was Peter Parker: the boy who hated bugs yet refused to kill them. "Sorry, MJ, bad time," he mumbled, "What's up?"

There was a pause, as if Michelle was processing something. "Well, I wanted to know if you were interested in seeing a movie later," she started slowly, "but you just said that it was a bad time." 

Peter glanced at his digital clock. May wouldn't be back for hours, and he could use some time in the company of friends to get over his disagreement with Mr. Stark. Besides, he hadn't had a good excuse to splurge and head to the cinema in a while. It'd be nice to spoil himself with a little fun. "I mean, I could go out," he said agreeably, quickly pulling himself together in anticipation. "Should I invite Ned?"

Michelle chuckled, as if he'd said something funny. "No, Peter, no Ned," she got out between gentle laughs, "I could be over in, like, an hour if you're down."

However confused he was by her laughter, he dismissed it as typical Michelle behavior. It made sense that she wouldn't want others around, in a way, considering the fact that she was more of a loner type. He was already on his feet, moving over to his abandoned pile of clothes. They were only recently used, which justified them as wearable in Peter's teenaged boy mind. "I'm down," he accepted. 

"Sweet," Michelle said cooly, "I'll see you then." 

When she hung up the phone, Peter was left with his lukewarm pancakes and two missed phone calls from Happy. He watched the accompanying text messages flood in while he ate, secretly smug. He didn't read nor respond to a single one. It felt good to leave someone else unattended to, for once. 

 

* * *

  

When Michelle arrived, she was wearing a pretty blouse and brand new lip gloss. Peter didn't spot these changes in her presentation specifically, but he did notice that she was more put together than usual. He chalked the difference in attire up to the weekend setting versus their usual encounters in school. "You look nice today," he complimented mindlessly. Himself, he was wearing a periodic table tee under his usual jacket-and-jeans get-up. Michelle seemed unenthused by that, for whatever reason, her eyes raking over his body like a knotted segment of hair she couldn't seem to get out, but she half-smiled at the compliment. 

"Thanks, I guess," she said with a single brow raised, "You look very... you." Peter nodded, locking the door to the apartment behind himself. He'd left behind a note to May, explaining that he was out with a friend and that he should be back before she got home. He felt better about going out knowing that there was a fail-safe, in case he took too long, so that she knew that he was okay. 

"So, what movie were you thinking of seeing?" he asked distractedly. A sudden pair of fingers pinching his ass made him jolt and fumble with his keys. He pivoted on his heels and blushed darkly. An odd game of association went through his mind, and the first person he thought of after the uncomfortable feeling was Wade. "What was that for?" he demanded, a higher pitch to his voice. 

Michelle laughed warmly. "Not whatever you're thinking, pervert," she teased him, holding up a folded piece of paper so he could see, "This was stuck to your ass." 

Peter's brow furrowed. "What's it for?" he questioned, craning his neck to get a better look at it while Michelle opened it up. He hadn't noticed it when he was getting dressed, but then again he never was the most observant kid. His lack of attention to detail got him into plenty of trouble as Spider-Man, consequentially. Her eyes darted up to his uncertainly. 

"It's a phone number," she informed blandly, a strange look passing over her face, "Addressed to 'baby-face'." 

Peter's cheeks flushed at that. "Wade," he mumbled, snatching the paper from Michelle's finger. Below the number (and the demeaning nickname) was a note: ' _Call me if you ever need to talk again. I'll be waiting anxiously, xx.'_   It shouldn't have read as sweet, but it did. His memory supplied the playful pat on his ass before he'd said goodbye to Wade yesterday as the origin of the little note. 

Michelle crossed her arms, clearly annoyed with something. In fact, her left eye seemed to be twitching the way it did whenever she was disappointed.  "Who's Wade?" she questioned. 

Peter glanced up at her with a lost look on his face. "Just some guy that won't leave me alone," he said dismissively, though his chest felt warm over it despite the carelessness in his tone. He folded the note back up precisely to each crease, then put it in his pocket for later. Michelle observed him for a moment, then seemed to realize something. She rubbed a hand over her face as if she'd just done something incredibly stupid. 

"I'm gonna go home, Peter," she mumbled, turning away from him with a sudden rigidness in her posture. Peter blinked in confusion, then quickly pursued her. 

"Wait, what?" he questioned disappointedly, "Why? What about the movie? Was it something I said?" He felt inexplicably bad, for whatever it was.

Michelle scoffed and shook her head, continuing to walk away quickly. "No, it was something that I didn't," she supplied blandly.

She wouldn't look at him, so Peter reached for her shoulder instinctively, which made her flinch. Her eyes were back on his with all the fire of a provoked animals' in an instant. He frowned deeply. "MJ-" he started. 

"Is this a date?" she asked all of a sudden.

Peter stared at her blankly, caught off guard. Without consideration, without hesitation, he answered with certainty, " _No_."

Michelle nodded, a bitterness in the way she locked her jaw and inclined her chin. Her voice was full of ice when she uttered: "Exactly."

At that, she left briskly, and then it was Peter's turn to feel stupid. 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO FUCKING TIRED i might delete this shit later blah


	9. Hooked On A Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter, alone and confused, makes a booty call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (the summary is clever because the note was ON HIS BUTT YA'LL)
> 
> (i'll be here all night ;D)

* * *

 

Peter shuffled back inside the apartment with a stunned look on his face. Everything was the same: the note he'd left on the fridge, the weeping daisy centerpiece on their wobbly dining table, the crooked photograph of him and May at Coney Island. Nothing had changed, except for everything else. Clearly, he wasn't as familiar with social cues as he'd like to be, and poor Michelle had to suffer for it. 

He took a temporary seat on the arm of the sofa, and the change in his pocket jangled. At first, he felt the guilt for his ignorant rejection.  _Of course_ , he thought, of course someone who appeared at all of his detentions, all of his club meetings, all of his lunches with Ned, would have to have some sort of ulterior motive. No one would subject themselves to the boredom of two hours worth of Captain America's pre-recorded lectures voluntarily; Michelle had been there for  _him_. 

It was hard to take at first, but once he understood, he got a sinking suspicion that he would be seeing considerably less of his newest friend. He chewed his knuckles anxiously. What was he supposed to say to her at the next academic decathlon meeting? An apology seemed inadequate. She was intimidating to him enough, grudges aside, which only meant her steely gaze would turn up the heat and cook him alive from there on out. It might seem silly for the Spider-Man to be afraid of a teenage girl, but dammit, he was. And maybe he did like Michelle, too, deep down, but Liz had taken his attention so completely he'd never noticed it before. Maybe there was hope yet for a make-up date. 

No. No, he shouldn't call it so quickly. He was confused by the attention, probably. Him-- geeky, awkward Peter Parker-- a target of someone's affection? It wasn't an everyday scenario, his Aunt May not included. Michelle wasn't a bad looking or awfully uncharismatic girl, either; she could probably ask anyone out and elicit a positive response. Or was that jittery, just-fucked-up-a-good-thing Peter talking? He wasn't sure. 

He definitely couldn't call Tony (who was still blowing up his phone with empty threats), and he had even less desire to call Ned (who would most likely laugh at him for the entirety of the conversation). A glance at the clock told him seven o'clock was far from near, so Aunt May was out of the question, too. He could feel the folded up note in his pocket poking into his tender skin. He bit his lip. Were two days of Wilson-Parker one-on-ones one too many? Probably, yes. Was the prior question poorly worded and confusing? Definitely, yes. 

He got out his phone, ignoring his 50+ missed messages, and dialed in Wade's number carefully. His thumb hovered over the call button. Tony, irritatingly enough, had made an excellent point about the dangers associated with spending personal time with a killer/stalker. He remembered the rough sound of Wade's voice after a cold glass of whiskey, the way his fingers maneuvered a gun like a harmless toy, and it made his head spin and his face feel warm. He should be scared, not exhilarated. He should be the boy that put on the suit to make a positive difference, not the one that strayed from the gilded path. The phone was dialing before he could fully realize the decision he'd made.

"Captain Thick-Dick, reporting for duty. Might I ask who I have the pleasure of speaking to?" Wade answered. Peter was tempted to end the call before it had even begun.

"It's me. I-I mean, it's Peter, Peter Parker," he stammered, clearing his throat. Wade made a small, surprised noise. 

"Baby-face!" he cheered, "Man, I'm pleased as punch. I expected a good six-to-seven business days before you did your laundry and found my little love letter, but gosh, here we are! By the way, we're going to have to have a serious conversation eventually about how often you wear the same pair of jeans. I mean, sure, they make your ass look  _nice_ \-- and I mean,  _nice_ \-- but, brother-"

"Wade!" Peter interrupted, blushing furiously, "Don't make me regret this, okay? I kind of need someone to talk to, and for whatever reason it's gonna be you." He ran a hand through his hair, staring down at his socked feet for a distraction. He could swear he'd been wearing the 'Friday' pair since Tuesday. Maybe Wade had a point about his laundry habits. 

There was a pause, then Wade chuckled. "You're missing my shoulder already?" he cooed, "It's still wet from last night, sweetheart, but why not? Are you home right now?" 

Peter blinked, looking over his shoulder as if at any moment a six-foot-plus man child was going to burst into the room. "Yeah," he answered hesitantly, "Why?" 

"I'll come over, bring pizza," Wade offered, "We'll make a date out of it. Sound good?"

Peter choked in response. "What? No! I mean, the pizza, yeah, but no more dates!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet and facing the door anxiously. 

On the other end, Wade turned the volume up on his phone interestedly. "Pardon: no  _more_ dates? Petey, you naughty boy, what skirts have your fingers been up to?" he questioned. A car door closing sent feedback through the line. 

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. "Dude, you couldn't be any more nasty if you tried," he groaned. 

"Watch me," Wade purred, and his voice sent shivers down Peter's spine. "See you in twenty." The call went dead, but it wasn't for a while more that Peter removed the phone from his ear.

 

* * *

 

Thirty minutes and a slice of pizza later, and Peter was pouring his heart out. "... so then she said, 'Exactly,' and just left," he finished filling Wade in. 

Mid-chew, the man's eyebrows raised. He made a scandalized sound. "Oh, no way," he got out around his mouthful, then swallowed, "Even for somebody who's just been rejected, that's  _way_ too dramatic, and you can trust me on that. I used to ask my dad to go easy on me  _all_ the time, and even when he broke my jaw I didn't pull the 'exactly' card. That's what the take-charge-bitch does in the movies." 

Peter opened and closed his mouth. He could never tell when Wade was being serious. "I'm not sure how that applies," he said, tilting his head, "but thanks for the support." 

Wade grinned around a big bite and nodded. "You betcha, baby-face," he chimed. He was in a noticeably better mood as compared to previously. If Peter was paying attention, he'd pick out the brand new watch Wade was wearing. After the man was done chewing his mouthful, he elaborated: "This Michelle girl, if I may-" He paused, waiting for a slow nod from Peter before he continued, "-she sounds tough, real tough. You, on the other hand? You give this baby-bird vibe. The Michelles of the world eat the Peters of the world for breakfast, is what I'm getting at.  _She's_ the take-charge-bitch." 

Peter nodded a little, his eyebrows furrowed. "And we're not... the two of us are not the 'take-charge-bitch'?" he checked. 

Wade snapped his fingers. "Yeah, now you're getting it," he enthused, taking a sip of his coke. 

Peter pouted confusedly. "I don't think I am," he admitted.

While Wade was eating, he rolled back his head and groaned. He finished his mouthful, held up a finger, and rose to his feet. "Come on, get up with me," he instructed, to which Peter stood reluctantly. "Alright, here's the drill: I'm the take-charge-bitch in this scenario, and you're the Peter." 

Peter nodded. "I'm the Peter," he repeated. He didn't laugh, but he recognized it as something stupid said seriously.

Wade clapped his hands together, then in a moment that went too fast he placed one hand on the small of Peter's back and the other on his cheek. "I've had an amazing night," he murmured huskily into his ear, holding him closer than what was comfortable, "and I'd love to do this again sometime, somewhere more private." He kissed his temple feather-gentle. Peter's legs wobbled. 

"Wha-? Oh," he sputtered uselessly, quivering a little under the intimate touch. Wade receded and crossed his arms. 

"Did you feel that?" he asked, seemingly unfazed by what had just happened, "I just hit you with the take-charge-bitch." 

Peter tried his best to pull himself together, taking a hasty seat. "I'm not sure what I was supposed to get out of that," he muttered, refusing to look Wade in the eye. His jeans felt tight. He hid his embarrassment under his plate. 

Wade shook his head. "Of course you're not, baby-face. Just start with how you felt about it," he said calmly, lounging on the sofa. He chugged the rest of his soda, then crushed the can single-handedly.

Peter swallowed thickly at the impressive display of strength. "Well, you came on strong, for sure," he noted, his eyes darting over Wade's face, "too strong." 

Wade wagged a finger at Peter. "See? That's exactly it," he said, "take-charge-bitches are intense. They see what they want, they go for it without hesitation. People like that are a force to be reckoned with. You're not ready for a take-charge-bitch." He kicked his feet up onto the table and folded his hands over his stomach.

Peter stared at him thoughtfully. "What makes you say that?" he questioned, picking at an un-melted piece of cheese on his latest slice of poorly-prepared pizza. 

Wade shrugged. "Well, you're a softie, for starters," he observed, "You like light conversation and low-scale fun. If something's straightforward, you shy away from it. You prefer the song-and-dance of something challenging- that's why you like your math problems so much. Spontaneity scares you, yet you're intrigued by the thrill. You're hot and cold. Michelle, the take-charge-bitch, likes poetry and educated conversation: the more obvious, more deadly arts. She's always hot. She'd scare you away if you got too close." 

Peter blinked at him. "Where'd you get all that?" he questioned, in awe. 

Wade laughed. "I followed you around for weeks, baby-face. I feel like I know you better than you know yourself by now," he reminded. He was looking at Peter in a way that made the boy fidget. 

"Well, maybe you're wrong," he protested, blushing, "I think I could be take-charge if I wanted to." It was Spider-Man speaking, not Peter; their confidences were exclusive of one another. 

"Ever kiss somebody?" Wade challenged, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. He was far too smug for Peter's taste. 

"No," he said haughtily, "but I could do it." He got on his knees and crossed his arms, not appreciating the condescending stare he was receiving. 

Wade chuckled. "But you haven't," he pointed out, "Why not?" It was a fair question. Peter had certainly considered kissing people plenty of times before, but each time he held out for the right moment. He wanted the kind of first kiss that could be photographed and come across as captivating. He never seemed to find the right lighting. 

The apartment was well lit.

Peter bit his lip. "Because I haven't felt like it," he mumbled, sitting back on his heels. 

Wade stuck out his bottom lip, removing his legs from the table. "You're nervous. How cute," he cooed sympathetically. He leaned his face forward, putting their noses uncomfortably close. "You shouldn't be, though. Fifteen years from your first and you'll look back and realize how insignificant it was. Trust me: my first kiss was with a sweaty Indonesian chick in the back of a bar. I don't even remember what I was drinking that night." He sighed dreamily. "Oh, how I miss the seventh grade." 

Peter's nose curled. He could feel the heat of Wade's breath. It was the opposite of right: pizza-lips, a twenty-plus-years sized gap between their births, and a fragile trust between them. He opened and closed his mouth. "I'm not nervous," he whispered, looking up into Wade's amused stare. He held it, a force to be reckoned with.

Wade's loins heated up. "Then prove it," he murmured, seemingly testing how far he could push Peter.

It was obvious that Wade liked pressing his buttons more than he probably should as an adult, yet Peter was easily taking the bait regardless of his gut feeling. Wade was wrong for him, yes, but he was available and playful and easier than anything else he'd ever had. He wet his lips. He recognized Wade's stare from nature documentaries: he was the feared predator, and out had come his growl. Peter leaned forward too fast, bumping noses and brushing lips. He cringed, feeling his face heat up from embarrassment. "No, no, I'm sorry," he blurted, dropping his eyes, "I'm real sorry." 

It was just a taste, and regardless of how poorly-conducted it had been, Wade looked to have received it with a surprising amount of interest. The man shook his head. "Take-charge," he mumbled, coming across as both a command and a compliment. 

Peter heeded him. He looked up again, feeling like he had something to prove, and placed a shaky hand on Wade's knee. He sought out his lips once more. The man touched his cheek and guided him, moving his mouth a little to make it easier. The kiss was soft, sweet, and shy: a perfect reflection of Peter. When it broke, the boy scrambled back, looking as if he'd been caught with his hand down his pants. "There," he breathed, "I did it. See? I told you I could do it, I-I can take charge. I told you." He wiped his mouth off against his sleeve and pushed back the warm flutter rising in his chest. 

Wade grinned. "You sure can," he agreed, his eyes dark with the evidence of lust. The look surprised Peter in its intensity, though he didn't recognize the nature of it due to his naivety. Wade swore softly when his phone buzzed in his pocket. "Gah! That's the timer, Petey- I've gotta hit the road." He turned it off quickly, hopping to his feet. There was an air of finality to his words, as if nothing of significance had come of his short time at Peter's.

Peter stared up at him with open bewilderment. He felt lost in the situation, like a minnow that'd been swallowed up by a much larger fish. "Oh," he managed, "What? Why?" His confusion treaded the line of betrayal.

"Work," Wade explained, shrugging on his jacket, "but feel free to call me later if you're feeling lonely again. I make an excellent bed-warmer." He gave Peter a wink, then headed for the door. 

Peter stood slowly. "O-Oh," he repeated dumbly, "I- I guess- G'bye, Wade." 

"Later, sugar-lips," Wade called, a laugh in his voice. The door shut behind him soundlessly. Peter stared at it in disbelief.  _What just happened?_

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, i've been kind of hating my characterization of Wade up until now, but after marathoning Deadpool clips and revising this chapter heavily, I'm finally feeling like I've got it on lock! Hopefully someone else notices the improvement and I haven't been driving myself crazy for nothing haha


	10. Heartlines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an overly eventful Saturday afternoon, Peter retires his attempts to reach out to others so that he can meditate on his decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I made some edits to chapters 6-9 (no changes in plot, just quality) and I'm feeling fired up to write some new content! 
> 
> P.S., my favorite part of writing this fic has honestly been the feeling of publishing a new chapter right before I go to sleep, and then waking up in the morning to all of the wonderful, detailed comments people leave me. I feel p spoiled tbh, since I never really considered my writing something "special". Anyways, just thought that ya'll (the readers) deserved to be appreciated, too. <3

* * *

  

Peter stuffed his jeans and sweater into the laundry basket, electing to crawl into more comfortable clothes and retire for the night. His life had been too much for him lately. With three strikes under his belt-- first from the Skype call with Tony, second from his "date" with Michelle, and third from his confusing first kiss-- he was through with looking for pleasure from other people. He tugged on a hoodie and a pair of flannel pants, then curled up on the couch to the sound of the  _Sherlock_ theme. To be completely honest, he'd watched the same episode dozens of times before, and he was nowhere near the mindset it took to re-immerse himself. Benedict's high-cheekboned face had become his distraction, not his escape. 

His cheek pressed to a throw pillow, he licked the taste of pizza grease and cherry lip balm from his mouth. A funny thought occurred to him: Wade Wilson wore makeup. It made him smile a little and wonder at the authenticity of the man's well-defined almond-shaped eyes, but his amusement quickly faded. He'd kissed a grown man. More worryingly yet, he'd kissed a grown man and hadn't been shoved away. Wade had enjoyed it, even encouraged it, in spite of knowing how confused Peter had been at the time. Peter felt, for lack of a better word, "icky" about it. 

Had he been tricked? Wade mentioned that he was confident he knew Peter well, and the way he toyed with him seemed masterful, but Peter wasn't a fool. He'd known what he was doing when he kissed Wade. He'd known, yes, but he'd still been played with, taken advantage of, and that was undeniable.

He ran his thumb along the seam of his lips. It had felt good, though, to kiss and to be kissed in return. Wade's hand on his face had been a balance between firm and gentle, a guideline of which way to lean and which manner to move. Wasn't that what made it wrong, though? Wade was much older than him, his soul whittled and weathered by the most dangerous advantage: experience. An adult should have known better in that situation, surely, but perhaps that was the point. Wade had known better, but he'd  _wanted_. Hadn't Weasel mentioned he had a bad habit of messing around with teenagers like himself? 

Peter covered his eyes with hands and sighed, cringing in spite of his own behavior. He shouldn't have acted so childishly. Kissing someone he hardly knew, let alone someone much older than himself who (once again, he must remind himself)  _killed_ people for a living, shouldn't have been his first idea for how to handle being teased. He shook his head a little, ashamed of himself. He couldn't get the feeling of Wade's hot breath and the addictive heat of their chests pressed together off of his mind, though.

 _Hormones_ , he blamed hormones. Final exams and villains aside, hormones were his new number one enemy. He should quarantine himself from Wade, really, but ever since he'd dialed his number he'd handed out his own. A phone call could go both ways from there on out, and Peter was awful at intentionally rejecting people. 

Behind him, he could hear the lock in the door turn as Aunt May arrived. He turned down the volume on the TV, knowing that she hated it loud, and sat up straight to watch as she entered the room. Her smile, however tired, was infectious. "Hey, Peter," she greeted, her voice heavy with exhaustion, "Did you get a chance to heat up a piece of lasagna for yourself yet?" She stripped herself of her coat and hung it up by the door.

Peter contemplated telling her he'd eaten otherwise, but imagining the possibilities of what might pour out of him with a little bit of his aunt's traditional curiosity made a smaller lie seem so much easier. "Yeah," he breathed, "It was really tasty. Super." 

May raised an eyebrow at him, moving toward the kitchen. "I'll bet," she called from the next room over, "You left behind two sauced-up plates for me to clean. Do me a favor and rinse them next time, Pete? Makes it easier for the both of us." The sink was running over the sound of her voice toward the end.

Peter laid back down with a heavy sigh. He was so relieved at how easily the conversation had closed that he hardly paid attention to what was said next. "Yeah, of course," he called back at her, unsure of what he was agreeing to, "Thanks." His eyes moved back to the TV screen. He frowned a little. Surely Sherlock would never kiss a much older (albeit extremely sexy) man-- he was far cleverer than that. That, and Peter was positive John Watson would never dream of lying about something crucial to a person he loved. He'd lost sight of his role models, clearly. He'd blame Tony for making lying into such a sport for him, but he knew in his heart that the real root of his problems was himself.  

 

* * *

  

Sunday passed him by uneventfully. He stayed in all day, reviewing the coverage of the burglary he'd busted Friday evening. He could still remember a time when something like that would earn him two seconds worth of a reference on the local news, yet ever since the scene he'd made on the shore near Coney Island his activities had been blown out of proportion. Investigators theorized he was a "twenty-eight-year-old male", claiming that he was using a voice changer to come across as prepubescent- which was for the purpose of confusing his opponents, of course. He wished he was. It'd certainly make whatever was happening between Wade and him easier. 

While he'd moped, he'd completed his assignments for the following day. It took all of his willpower to get out of bed Monday morning, what with the foul mood the events of Saturday and his loneliness had put him in. He ate his Lucky Charms with a comical gloom, nudging the cartoonish marshmallows to and fro. Even the blue-colored milk failed to cheer him up. 

The period between him departing the apartment and arriving at the subway had passed him by in a blur. Saying goodbye to May had made him sweat a little, knowing the wrong he was doing her by keeping Wade's existence a secret. He started to consider that his involvement with Wade wasn't only putting his own safety into questioned, but hers, too, and so his thoughts were further complicated. 

He'd never understood Michelle's preference for being "plugged-in"-- her earbuds always on, blasting her music to the point where it could be heard faintly by those in her proximity-- but that morning he found himself taking a liking to it, too. Michelle was another issue he had to sort. His troubles had started to manifest in his mind's eye as a giant gordian knot: there was no certain start, no certain end, and no clear way out of the situation he'd created. He'd have to make the best of it, regardless, and getting back on the good side of the academic decathlon president was an excellent place to start. 

Ned was waiting for him under the American flag when he arrived. He grinned at Peter when he got closer, giving him a thumbs up. "Good work, Spider-Man!" he cheered. Peter shushed him, taking a quick look around to ensure no one had over-heard. He realized begrudgingly that his peers might excuse it as nerdy behavior if they had, anyway, knowing their reputation. 

"Not so loud," he reminded, "Air tight, remember?" He took a seat beside Ned, who zipped his lips and nodded gravely. Peter's shoulders slumped slightly, and he barely smiled at the over exaggerated gesture.

Ned frowned at him. "Did something happen this weekend?" he asked knowingly, moving his backpack to his feet so that there wasn't such a tremendous amount of space between them. 

Peter laughed a little, a humorless sound. He held his face in his hands. "Dude, if you knew, you wouldn't look at me the same," he mumbled. He peeked out at the world between his fingers, peering down at a snail trail. Its creator was creeping closer to him, and he watched it enviously. Stupid little bug hardly had the brain to consider which direction it should go in, let alone the spider-web that was the state of Peter's current relationships. Lucky bastard. 

Ned tilted his head a little. "Man, you should give me some more credit," he complained, "You told me you were Spider-Man, and as much as I'd like to make a huge deal out of what you can do, I got over it, and I still treat you like Peter Parker." He clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder and smiled reassuringly, earning himself one in return. 

"It's really messed up, though, Ned," Peter sighed, "I still need to work through it myself, okay?" He'd like to be open with his best friend, but he knew that the problem he was facing went above and beyond his secret identity. The kiss had been a breach of safety among other things, and it had only been the cherry on top of a myriad of other private issues. No, he wasn't ready to bring Ned into it. He needed to realize what had to be done for himself, by himself, and not with the help of any other person. 

Ned, despite his obvious concern, nodded his reluctant agreement. "If you're sure, Pete." 

 

* * *

  

"... and that concludes today's meeting," Michelle announced tiredly, banging a toy gavel a team member had gifted her as a joke against her copy of  _Wuthering Heights._ The typical chatter commenced afterward, but Peter hardly paid it any mind. He had an apology to deliver, however much he'd like to excuse himself from it. It had been on his mind all day. His chemistry teacher had sent him for a walk over it earlier, after he'd fumbled badly enough with his lab equipment to cause a big commotion. Flash wouldn't let him live it down.

He approached Michelle timidly, his hands in the pockets of his now-clean blue-jeans. He cleared his throat to catch her attention. He was treated with an affronted look in return. "Hey," he greeted uncomfortably. 

Michelle crossed her arms. "'Hey' what, Parker?" she pressed. Her response made Peter curl his toes anxiously in his shoes. 

"I wanted to apologize, for being such an idiot," he started, "When you called, I really thought- like, I  _really_ thought you just wanted to see a movie together, as friends, and I was so caught up in what was going on with myself at the time that I never considered what you were thinking, or that you might be looking to do something more." He bounced on his heels a little, wringing his fingers. He wanted desperately for things to revert to the way they'd been between them before, but realistically, the most he would get out of his apology would be a begrudging, 'I won't kill you'. "And I'm super sorry," he added after that thought, to sweeten the pot.

Michelle nodded shortly, pursing her lips. "I was a little surprised by your lack of deduction skills," she admitted, "but your ability to show respect impresses, as always. You really are charming, Parker." She looked a little sore over that, her eyes conveying how let down she was by their lack of mutual interest. "I accept your apology."

Peter let out a breath, laughing a little in disbelief. "Really?" he breathed, "Aw, man, that's great. I thought for sure that-"

"Ah, bah!" she interrupted, holding up a hand, "Don't give me any ideas here. I'm a stubborn girl, so we're both lucky you've got the baddest case of puppy-dog eyes I've ever seen. We're still going to see that movie sometime, for sure, and after we do, we're going to talk about getting you signed on to the school newspaper as a photographer." She semi-smiled. "I haven't forgotten."

Peter's lips parted. He was touched beyond what he could express with words. Things seemed to be looking up again. "I'd really like that," he agreed, going for a hug as he naturally would.

Michelle stopped him, then reached instead for a handshake. "Friends," she said firmly, raising an eyebrow at him. It was clear to see she was setting some boundaries for them, and so long as he could count on Michelle when he needed her from then on out, he'd take it. 

"Friends," he agreed, shaking on it. Her grip was firm, her eyes were radiant: take-charge-bitch. 

 

* * *

 

Tony was on glass number five of his favorite hard liquor, staring resentfully at his phone. He'd gotten so afraid for Peter that he'd run the risk, at last, of giving the boy access to his direct contact. He was scared, because in the final few moments of their last conversation, he'd seen a reflection of himself from so many years ago. Peter Parker was kind and bright and hopeful, and for him to resemble even a facet of young Tony Stark was an insult to his nature. Tony's youth had been a haze of heavy drugs and depression and his father's disappointment; Peter's youth was built on his love for his family and his mission to defend those in need. The last thing he wanted was for the line between the two to grow fuzzy through his bad influence.

Yes, he blamed himself for Peter's suffering. He'd encouraged him to take on more as Spider-Man, introducing him to more dangerous territory in a selfish attempt to prove he was right to an old friend. He'd made the boy into a mindless, action-hungry hound, waiting impatiently for another scrap of the buffet he'd been introduced to so briefly, and because of it Peter had run willingly into a room with a trained killer in hopes of proving he was worthy. Tony believed himself to be no better than his old man.

He set down the glass and grabbed the bottle instead, taking a big swig. Happy appeared at that moment, announcing, "Hey, I looked into that Wade Wilson guy for you. You won't believe--" When he broke off, Tony didn't even look at him. He didn't hear the man hurry closer, but he felt him snatch the bottle way. "What're you doing to yourself, Tony?"

That voice, he recognized: it was soft, sympathetic, disappointed. He knew he'd dove back, headfirst, into something ugly. It'd taken him so long to catch a break from his crippling alcoholism, to learn to exert control when he was indulging himself, and yet there he was, proving once more that he was an unfit mentor for a child as pure as Peter. He rubbed his nose and grunted. "Happy, i's nothin'," he slurred, staring down at the floor.  He felt himself being lifted up from his armchair by his biceps, then his one arm was slung over the other man's shoulders. 

Happy groaned a little as he bore Tony's dead weight, dragging him toward the master bedroom. "You're gonna sleep this off," he murmured, "and then in the morning I'm going to beat you senseless-- metaphorically speaking." He sighed sadly, and Tony rolled his head onto his shoulder in response, as if he could comfort him that way. 

"You smell like you're wearing perfume," Tony mumbled, his nose curling, "You been out on a date, Hap?" It was a distraction tactic. Sure, he was drunk, but the most that meant for him as Tony Stark was increased recklessness and a surprising capacity to discuss his feelings (however poorly). He could read Happy no matter how hammered he was; the man was an open book. 

"I was," Happy said, clearly lying to appease him. Tony knew for a fact that he'd been working all day, and that Happy had probably found something out about Wilson that he knew he wasn't going to like. It made sense: anyone else in Happy's position would play into his temporary delusions, too, rather than explain something much heavier to him while he was intoxicated. "Yeah, it was a good time," the man continued to cover up in a low murmur. He set Tony carefully on the bed, and the man turned over with a lazy grunt. 

"Good man," Tony sighed, "You d'serve it." He gagged for a moment, and despite it being no more than a temporary struggle, Happy remained on stand-by. Tony was flattered by the concern. He often felt as if he didn't deserve it, but it was good to have, and even better to know that Happy's salary was no waste of his money. In fact, Tony figured he was due for a raise. "I'm givin' you a raise," he announced, "A million dollar raise." There was a fine example of Stark drunkenness: handing away his fortune. 

Happy didn't even chuckle. Tony knew he took his heavier drinking to heart, and that was a big part of the reason he'd kept himself together for so long, even after Pepper had gone away. "Go to sleep, man," he heard him sigh. 

Tony closed his eyes to appease him. It was the least he could do. Besides, he wanted to be well-rested for whatever Happy had to say about Wade Wilson. He was looking forward to having a reason to be as angry as he already was when he hunted the fucker down for preying on Peter. 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a filler chapter to accomplish:
> 
> a.) establishing the fact that Peter is a smol, confused boy who really needs comfort and good examples in his life, and wade is being a big ol' meanie right now
> 
> b.) more ned & peter bro times!! i loved them in the movie
> 
> c.) closure for Pete's relationship with MJ, and potential seedlings for later jealous!Wade *wags eyebrows* 
> 
> d.) tony feels 
> 
> feel free to suggest ANY edits you think this could use. constructive feedback is SUPER helpful <3


	11. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter takes the time to swing by the cinema, and someone else takes the time to swing by him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So, there wasn't an update for a solid 40 hours, but I'm back, baby. It was a good opportunity to take a break and catch up on all of the exciting Marvel updates.

* * *

 

Peter Parker's world lately was more full of himself than Spider-Man. Even with Aunt May's blessing to keep at his good deeds, he responded to the reports he received through his new earpiece rarely. He was scared to be found out, for one thing, ever since he'd discovered Wade had been following him around. The sparse times he did suit up were when he was the furthest away from anything familiar, just to steer clear of Peter Parker's known spots to appear being associated with Spidey's, and even then the experience made him nauseous. His privacy meant everything to him. He still had nightmares about Toomes telling the world his secret.  

Beyond the sanctity of keeping his regular life separate from his heroic one, Peter had recently tasked himself with a mission of self-discovery, and that took up the most of his time.

It'd been five days since his last contact with Wade Wilson. As far as detoxication operations went, his was abysmal. He still thought about big hands and cherry chapstick each night before he fell asleep. Sometimes, he woke up from vague dreams of whispers in his ear and fingers drifting down his sides, his cheeks flush with color. Needless to say, he'd spoiled plenty of pairs of boxers in the process of coping with his intimate thoughts.

Still, his efforts were worthy of his pride. He'd taken to his cover-hobby, photography, with the assistance of a handful of newspaper club kids, and while he was shooting Wade was the furthest from his mind. Picking up the camera had inspired him to spend plenty of time alone, too, the way he used to, for the purpose of searching for the right subject. He'd even began to read again because of his increased quiet time, and he was disappointed to say that his favorite series had taken an unexpected turn since he'd last read it. No matter, though: he had Michelle to vent to now. Ned was a close second choice, even though he had no idea what he was talking about. 

MJ and him had grown closer together since his apology, even more so than they were before his blunder. She hadn't been kidding about the movie, nor the help she'd promised him. It was interesting to connect with someone like her on a creative level, being, as Wade had put it in such an eloquent manner, she was far more intense than him. They'd agreed to see Hollywood's latest live-action interpretation of a video game together, if only, as Michelle put it, "for (her) to watch (him) geek out while (she) ripped it to shreds". Peter took her poking fun in stride.

They were meeting at the theater that afternoon, her already inside snacking on a box of Snowcaps when he arrived at last. Peter had been running late due to a combination of criminal activity and his hindered ability to hop in and out of his suit efficiently. That, and before he'd gone off in a hurry, Ned had made it a point to give him an envelope after school, claiming it was a big deal. He'd dismissed it for the time, assuming it was another one of his best friend's cheesy invites to a weekend-long video game bash. He wasn't sure he had one in him. He'd have to open the envelope later to figure it out. In the end, after a long period of running around, he'd chickened out and decided not to make the change into his suit. Call him crazy, but he had a bad feeling about it. He was panting when he finally approached Michelle, gasping out, "I'm not that late, am I?" He gestured to her candy. "Geez."

Michelle cracked a grin. "Not everything's about you, Parker," she teased, "I just wanted a little bit of chocolate. C'mon, I got your ticket- you owe me twelve dollars, by the way. It's not my treat."  

Peter laughed. "Ice cold," he joked, nudging her as they moved further inside. His attention was caught by the popcorn machine at the concession stand, and his mouth watered. He was already late, though, he couldn't possibly-

"Go get it," Michelle groaned, handing one of the tickets to him, "We're in theater 7; I'll save you a seat."

Peter shot her a dazzling smile to show his gratitude. "Sweet. I'll meet you there," he chimed. His back was already to her, his eyes set on his snack food of choice. On his way, a larger body bumped hard into his. "Hey, man, watch it!" he exclaimed, rubbing his arm and scowling his offense. His dizzy eyes snatched the stranger's profile, and it was no stranger.  _Not again_.

"Woah, fancy seeing you here," Wade greeted, his voice full of false surprise, "Are you actually out on that date, cutie? I thought we talked that through."

Peter shook his head. "I thought you said you weren't going to follow me around any more," he retorted, starting to feel slightly sick at Wade's unexpected appearance. The glimpse he'd received of the man's softer side had plagued him for the majority of his week, but that didn't mean he wasn't capable of being disturbed by his crazy behavior. 

Wade shrugged. "I used to tell chicks my dick was ten inches long just to pick them up," he said smoothly, "but those extra two inches only ever existed in my imagination." He winked. Peter blushed without meaning to, turning toward the concession stand. Wade might've been lying twice in one sentence, but he believed it for the sake of gratifying his twisted curiosity.

"Go away, Wade. I'm trying to have a good time with a friend, and I don't need you here," he said sharply. The person in front of him was nearly done paying when Wade clasped a hand on his shoulder and leaned in close. 

"I thought _we_  were capable of having a good time," the man purred. His voice was husky, but when Peter glanced back at him his expression was neutral. He shook off his grip with ease. 

"Don't," he said firmly, his eyes full of fire. He walked away before he even had the chance to speak with the vendor, and based on the footsteps that followed him Wade hadn't given up on whatever it was that he was there to accomplish. 

"Hey, Pete, relax. I'm really sorry," he called after him, earning a disbelieving glare from Peter. The boy stopped and moved to stand toe-to-toe with him.

"You're not sorry," he said with certainty, tilting his head at Wade in an almost challenging way. 

"I'm not," Wade agreed, "but I'd love it if you believed that I was." Peter opened and closed his mouth at that, shaking his head. 

"Dude, do you even make sense to yourself?" he questioned, outraged, "What're you doing here?"

Wade grinned. "I'm here to talk to you, _hello_ ," he chuckled, as if Peter had asked an incredibly stupid question, "You haven't called me once since our little smooch. What's up with that?"

Peter raised an eyebrow. "What? I was supposed to call you? I don't remember hashing that out," he snarked, crossing his arms. He had to crane his neck a little to get a good look at Wade's face, which didn't exactly aid him in his attempt to be intimidating. 

"Aw, c'mon, baby-face, our relationship runs deeper than that," Wade teased, standing taller and leaning closer in a display of domination, "I saw the look on your face the last time we were together, all heart-eyes and lost puppy-dog pouts. You can't get enough of me." He tilted his head right back at him, challenge accepted, his eyes gleaming with something dark and conceited. "Am I not right?" 

Peter swallowed thickly, a bashfulness appearing in his features in the form of a slow blink and broken eye contact. He knew Wade was right, from the tip of his toes to the heat in his chest and the ache in his head. "You can't just show up unannounced whenever you like," he countered, "whether you being convinced that I'm just itching to see you is correct or not. If I want you around, I'll call."

Wade shook his head. "You won't," he dismissed without a beat, "You'll just hide from it. You're good at hiding." He snuck a quick kiss onto Peter's cheek, making the boy flinch. "I'll see you around, babe. Enjoy the movie." He stuffed his hands in his pockets, backing away. "And update your GPS, alright? You did a stupid amount of running around before you got here." He turned away, then, walking off with an irritating swagger.

Peter blanched. Close call number two had passed him by when he was least expecting. His horror aside, he was suddenly compelled to give Wade a call later on, just to prove him wrong. That man could play him like a fiddle.  _Babe_ , he recalled in disbelief,  _babe_.

 

* * *

 

The movie with MJ had gone well, excepting the fact that moments before it had begun he'd been pulled aside by an uninvited Wade Wilson. For the rest of the afternoon, he couldn't get him out of his thoughts. His mind, however sharp it usually was, felt twisted and strained. He knew distantly that someone following him around, appearing when he was least wanted, and touching him in ways that left dull marks in his impressionable principles, was poisonous to him, yet still he wanted more. 

He could hear May knocking on his door for a moment, then watched as she opened it after a nonexistent pause. He looked away distractedly, and she took a seat beside him. "Hey, kiddo," she greeted cheerfully, tilting her head when she caught onto his foul mood, "You alright?"

Peter frowned at her a little, folding his hands in his lap. He shrugged. "I've just got a lot on my mind," he said glumly. He couldn't quite get his gaze to reach her eyes. He felt too guilty, too gross, to look at her. Her hand appeared on his shoulder, soothing and kind. 

"Well, that's why I'm here, isn't it?" she chuckled, lowering her head in an attempt to find Peter's eyes, "So that you can relieve your mind a little." Peter nodded absently. It wasn't that he was hardly paying her mind so much as he didn't feel like he deserved what she had to say. His eyes were considerably less dry, suddenly, and she tsked. "Oh, come on, Peter- nobody should be this sad on their birthday," she pleaded with him.

Peter froze, his eyes darting up to hers all of a sudden. He wasn't crying at that point; he was only overwhelmed and teary. "Birthday?" he breathed, "Whose birthday? My birthday?" It felt an awful lot like he'd stepped into  _Gatsby_ , but he was only fifteen--  _sixteen_ \-- and his birthday was supposed to mean the world to him. Ned hadn't even said a word to him about it! Sure, he'd said in the past that he didn't like making a big deal out of his birthday while he was in school, but Ned always seemed to mention it no matter the fact. No, wait, that was a lie: he'd taken an envelope from Ned right before he'd left to respond to the police report he'd received via-earbud, and he'd shoved it straight into his backpack to be forgotten.

He hopped to his feet, ripped open his bag, and pulled out the crumbled card. A gift card fell into his lap. ' _Happy birthday, dude!_ _'_ the message inside began. Peter's vision became too blurry for him to continue reading. He was such a dick! His best friend had done him a kindness, given him something thoughtful, and he'd left him behind in a hurry.

May watched him carefully. "Yeah, silly," she said softly, her voice laced with concern, "I've only been talking about it non-stop for the past week." Peter was sure that she had, and that he'd ignored her, too. God, he'd been so caught up in figuring out Wade, and trying to work up the courage to get back in the suit, that all of the people he worried about-- all of them, except for Michelle, apparently-- he'd left in the dust. He was such a gigantic idiot. May's hand appeared on his upper back, and he flinched. "Baby, are you crying?" she murmured, "You're really starting to worry me." 

He shook his head and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. "It's nothing, May," he lied, choked up, "It's just stress from school. I t-totally forgot about- about-" He cut himself off, his lower lip wobbling.

She rubbed his back and shushed him. "That's fine, sweetheart. You know how forgetful I can be sometimes- I should be the one crying," she comforted, chuckling softly to make the situation seem small. Peter sniffled. He only felt worse at that, his heart heavier, but he managed to stop the tears. "What do you say we dig into some birthday cake, huh? I stopped by _Gusto's_ and got one for you. I know that's your favorite bakery."

Peter covered his eyes at that, and underneath he squeezed them shut and let the last of his tears fall. "Yeah, it is," he managed, his voice coming out higher than usual. Why did May have to be so damn considerate? 

"Good, that's good," May murmured, continuing to rub. "Let's celebrate, okay? If you feel up to it later, Ned mentioned that he wanted to take you out to that arcade the two of you go to during the summer." Peter cleared the lump in his throat. He felt like he'd break down just at the sight of his best friend, but more than that feeling he knew in his heart that he at least owed him a night out, to make up for the blasé way he'd reacted to his gift earlier. He nodded rather than vocalized a yes. "Awesome," May murmured, removing her hand, "I'll be waiting for you in the kitchen, baby. Take your time." The floorboards creaked, then Peter's door closed. He wrapped his arms around himself and sat, just sat, until he finally felt up to joining her. 

 

* * *

 

"You what?" Ned exclaimed, leaving his character to die in his distraction. Peter, who'd gone through an emotional greeting and apology before they'd gotten to where they were, cringed. 

"I met this mercenary through work for Mr. Stark," he re-explained, roughly, "And one thing lead to another, and we kissed in my apartment." He propped his chin on his forearm, resting his elbows along the side of the railing next to the machine Ned was operating. His friend gaped at him.

"Dude," Ned breathed, "Wasn't it scary? Like, this guy kills people, right? And how old is he, anyway? And what were the succession of things that lead to one another that resulted in making out with some random stalker?" He was getting increasingly loud, so Peter shushed him, narrowly avoiding catching the attention of the other kids and teens milling about the arcade. 

"We didn't make out," Peter hissed, covering his face with his one hand as his cheeks heated up in embarrassment, "It was just, like, a two second smooch, and then he left. And, I dunno, he's like, thirty-three to thirty-five, I'm guessing? And I  _know_ -"

Ned made an exasperated noise, looking as if his world had been turned over. "Peter, have you lost it?" he whisper-shouted, "That guy could be dangerous-- or your  _dad_ , in an alternate universe!" 

Peter winced. "Hey, no need to remind me, alright? Clearly it's been bugging me, too!" he defended. 

Ned toned it down slightly at that, but he still looked heated at the new information. His brow furrowed. "Well, what are you gonna do about it? You're going to tell Mr. Stark he's still following you, right?" he questioned, his eyes fixated on Peter's face. 

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know. I think I won't," he mumbled. 

Ned gaped at him again. "What? Why not?" he pressed, bewildered, "This guy knows your name, your number, where you live, what you do after school, and you're not going to tell the toughest guy you know that he's been giving you trouble?" 

Peter shook his head, flustered. "It's not as simple as that, dude, you don't get it-"

"Yeah," Ned interjected, laughing drily in his disbelief, "I don't!" He fed more of his money into the machine's coin slot, starting another game as their conversation progressed. 

"Listen to me," Peter pleaded over the sound of the game, "He's bad news, sure, but he makes me feel a certain way, like I'm special." Ned raised an eyebrow at him, and he blushed. "I don't know! It sounds stupid, I realize, but I kind of don't want Mr. Stark messing with something that might be good. Besides, I already told him a bit of it before, right? So if something goes wrong, he'll know where to start looking for me." He bit his lip.

Ned shook his head. "It'll never be good," he said, "You wouldn't even kill the guy who threatened your life, and this Wade dude decided to make a living off of doing just that: killing. And never minding that, he could play your sensei in a martial arts movie-- he's _that_ much older." He jerked the joystick when he got close to dying, letting out a little grunt that truly punctuated his short-lived wisdom.

Peter shrugged, returning to his state of rest with both of his arms propped on the railing. "I dunno. Maybe it could be another secret of mine, y'know? It could be the one bad thing I do. I mean, everything else in my life is so cookie-cutter, so why not? That doesn't make me evil, or anything, does it?" he reasoned. 

Ned shrugged, too distracted with the game and let down by Peter's lack of agreement to argue any further. "I still don't think it's a good idea, but somebody else's disapproval hasn't ever stopped you before," he mumbled, "You'll have to figure it out yourself, I guess." 

Peter frowned. It made sense, but he hated to hear it. He wanted strong-worded advice, but then again, he also wanted strong-worded validation. He would never get both. 

 

* * *

 

He was wedged between a dozen pillows with a warm glass of milk cradled between his knees, gazing out the window at the surrounding darkness. He was sat there, five minutes past midnight, thinking about how fast his sixteenth birthday had passed him by, and how fittingly unsweet it had been. May and Ned were the only two people he spoke to currently that had known, and the rest of his friends and acquaintances had no memory of him telling them to remember it by. It was a testament to how many new faces had entered his life in the past year, and how little they knew of him.

It'd be incorrect to say the day had been uneventful, and it'd be dishonest to say it'd been enjoyable. It had simply been. His time at the arcade had been a little fun, admittedly, and the cake had been delicious, but his intrusive thoughts had brought upon him a dark fog that clouded the whole affair. A whole year of slowly maturing had passed him by, and instead of feeling stronger, he felt smaller than ever. 

He pressed the receiver of his phone to his lips. He'd been contemplating calling Wade for more than an hour. What did he plan to say: 'Hey, I'm sixteen now, and I think you're sexy, but also I'm not sure that I think I'm ready for sex, or more specifically that I really even want it with you. Does that make you horny or what? Haha, just kidding, I don't care, I'm still conflicted'? Not only was that a mouthful, but it was a hot mess, and yet it was the best way he could think of handling the situation. 

He pressed the home button and stared at the screen. The clock read 12:07 a.m. by that point, and his eyes were sore from the sudden brightness that punctured the dim-lit room. He didn't have anything to lose, he reasoned. He wasn't trying to impress Wade, after all. If anything, if Wade found him weird after the phone call, it would be a blessing. He unlocked his phone at last, then dialed Wade's number. 

It only took two rings. "Mmm. Peter," Wade answered. His voice was thicker, deeper, than usual, as if he'd been on the verge of sleep when the call came through.

Peter sucked in a breath. "Yeah, hey, me. I'm- it's me," he stammered. He squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm kind of a hot mess right now, so bear with me." He rubbed his face. He could hear Wade moving in his sheets, and for whatever reason the sound made his baby hairs stand on end. The teeny, tiny, vulgar part of his mind wondered if Wade slept in his boxers- or better yet, nothing at all. 

Wade hummed softly. "That's okay, take your time," he said understandingly, "I gave you a lot to think about, huh?" 

Peter shook his head, despite the fact that he couldn't be seen. "No, Wade, there's more that goes on in my life when you walk away from me, surprisingly enough. I don't just sit around and stare at walls all day until you turn up," he huffed. Wade chuckled at him, and the sound made his stomach hop. 

"I know, baby-face, you can put the claws away," the man indulged him, "Where this call is going is where my heart is at right now. Care to share with the group?" 

Peter stared into space. He took a drink of his milk, then set it aside. "I'm not sure," he admitted, "I think I was calling you to ask the same thing." 

Wade grunted a little at that. "I see. You need a little help here," he purred, "Are you sure you want to know what I think?" Peter fiddled with his blankets. He could practically see the crossroads he'd approached: one path called 'fuck it', another 'run'.  _Fuck it._

"Yeah, go ahead," he permitted softly, curling his knees to his chest. He peered down at where he could see his toes curling under the blankets, a tiny distraction from the heaviness of their conversation. 

"Well, I think it's incredibly sexy how innocent you are, for starters," Wade sighed, "It's all in your eyes at first, and then you open your mouth and suddenly it's like I'm talking to a genetically-engineered choir boy. And yet, you came to me, looking for trouble. That means there's something in you, doesn't it? That a part of you really wants to do something wrong for once, so that you can know what it actually feels like when it happens?" 

Peter rubbed a loose feather peeking out of his comforter, losing ahold of himself as Wade's smooth voice continued to pick apart his brain. "Yes," he admitted in a whisper. 

Wade made a pleased noise at that. "And that's why you like me so much: because I'm all wrong and nasty," he figured, "That's why what we've got is so perfect. I get a taste of something sweet with you, and in turn I give you something sour. Isn't that just neat?" 

Peter could feel his resolve weakening. He remembered that look in Wade's eyes when they'd kissed, when he'd  _wanted_ , and he could feel the same thing burning through his. "So what're you getting at?" he breathed, all attempted distractions forgotten. 

"Isn't it obvious, baby?" Wade purred, "I want our friendship to have a couple of benefits attached to it. What do you say? We can knock out all of your firsts, one by one, and you can find some peace of mind knowing that trying to be so perfect all of the time isn't everything after all." 

Peter's brow furrowed, and his face flushed. It was so vile, so shocking to hear, despite the fact that he'd been expecting it. "I'm not trying to be perfect," he protested lamely. The word 'yes' was tempted to tumble from his lips, but a thin thread kept it at bay for the time. He wanted to trust Wade, but the man was a liar by his own account. The trust was all he needed to give in: it was the most important ingredient in his recipe for disaster. 

"You can trust me this time," Wade murmured, ever the predictive snake, "I know I've been bad, but that's just 'cause that's what's in me. I'll be better for you, if only for a little." 

Peter was quiet for such a short moment. "Text me your address," he forced out of himself, "I've got nothing to do tomorrow. I-I'll visit, and we'll see what happens from there." 

The pause that followed was slightly sickening. "Absolutely," Wade agreed, his voice like syrup, "Don't let me slip your mind." The line went dead. Peter set aside his phone, and when it buzzed a moment later with the information he'd asked for, he found it difficult to sleep.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey can we just talk about LEAKED INFINITY WAR TRAILER??? MY DADS ARE BACK AND MY BABY IS BROKEN WHAT'S H A P P E N I N G ??? so much mcu in so little time oh my fUcking god i nutted
> 
> hope ya'll liked the chapter! i feel like i'm kind of finding my way back to just writing because i enjoy it, and less because i feel like i /need/ to. it helps a lot. plus, i was listening to landslide by stevie nicks while I was writing the part with peter and may, and i got super emotional. i think it shows in the writing a little :// shit, if anyone wants smut, they could probably just fucking spam me with sexy time songs and i'd soak up the feelings


	12. Smiling Faces Sometimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter pays his favorite merc a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i read every comment on my last chapter, and i have to say, some of you guys really brought it. if i didn't reply to you, it's because the feedback has started to get so ENORMOUS that i just can't find the time to anymore. so if you still have something to say, don't let the silence discourage and PLEASE give it to me. 
> 
> enough has been said: time to get into the update!

* * *

 

It wasn't until he was stood outside the door of Wade Wilson's apartment that Peter's second thoughts struck him. It was half past eleven, yet to even reach noon, and he was fully dressed and trembling somewhere clear on the other side of the city. He hadn't gotten much rest-- three hours total-- and he'd eaten light for breakfast for fear of puking it up out of nervousness. What would be waiting for him on the other side of Wade's door? Would he be half-dressed and cocky as ever, his figure cloaked in candle-light, or would Wade simply use him, abuse him, and lose him? He wasn't sure. For one thing, he knew that he was petrified. He managed to force himself to knock, and he felt his meager portion of corn flakes tickle his throat. It was a little bit comforting to remind himself he had Tony on speed dial now (ever since his parade of voice messages, Peter had saved his number to his contacts for emergencies, despite having not replied to any of the urgent phone calls). 

It took a full minute for the door to open. In that time, Peter reprimanded himself for his stupidity. It could have been that Wade gave him a phony address, or that he was waiting for him with a handful of chloroform to put him into a pliant state for the taking. That might be a bit too dark of an idea, considering the bit of empathy he'd been shown by the man at a cafe a couple of weeks ago, but with the little bit of his character that he'd been exposed to it was the least that he could assume. 

It was Wade who answered, wearing nothing but a faded navy t-shirt and a pair of boxer briefs. He watched as the man rubbed his eyes, his left sleeve peeling back to show-off hard muscle Peter had yet to see, and yawned. "Petey? Isn't it a bit early?" he questioned, "I guess you were looking to be wined and dined first, hm?" He smirked, resting his cheek on his door frame with his eyes full of sleep. "Come on, get your pert little ass in here. There's plenty of room for you on the sofa." He winked. 

Peter, who was busy staring, couldn't even manage so much as an affirmative squeak. His fingers were shaking badly. He slipped inside, feeling Wade's eyes eat at him as he walked by, and took a good look around. 

The whole of the place was one room, excluding the bathroom. There were basic kitchen amenities, including a stove-top oven and a refrigerator, surrounded by counters over-crowded with pots, pans, and takeout containers. The television inside was like one out of a sitcom: ratty and dented, complete with a stack of pizza boxes rested on top of it. The sofa's cushions were sunken and faded, its worn fabric polka-dotted with peculiar maroon stains, and the "coffee table" was construed of cardboard boxes and duct tape. The best feature of the apartment, by far, was Wade's simple queen-sized bed. The sheets were muted gray, and they appeared to be clean. At either side of the bed was a cardboard box, serving as table-space for Wade's lamps and mementos. Peter swallowed thickly. He did  _not_ want to lose his virginity in a place like that. Then again, who ever said he had to? He'd merely agreed to talk. Nothing specific should be expected of him.

Wade caught on to the nauseous look on Peter's face and chuckled, tucking an arm over his shoulders. "Try to excuse the clutter, baby-face, I expected you much later than this," he admitted, guiding Peter toward the sofa, "Here, have a seat. I'm just gonna go slip into something more comfortable." Peter felt himself being pushed down gently until he was sat on the decrepit couch. He looked up at Wade in a state of miniature panic. "Don't you run off on me," the man said firmly, "You look like somebody just told you there was dog shit in your chocolate cake." Peter gave him a funny look, to which the man shrugged. "Don't like it, don't look like it. I'll be right back." He disappeared into his bathroom.

Peter folded his hands on his lap, scooting forward so he was just barely perched on the edge of the skeevy sofa. He could hear water running in the bathroom, then the sound of a shaving cream can being used. Wade must be tidying himself up, he realized. He looked down at himself on that note: he was in an old sweater and a torn-up pair of jeans. Was he really looking to leave a good impression, though? It wasn't a date. The way they'd spoken about things, he wouldn't even be wearing any of it within the next few minutes. He felt queasy about that. 

Wade emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a clean set of clothes with a better-groomed beard. He grinned at Peter, then sat beside him with a light laugh. "You're so tense," he cooed, "Makes me feel bad. Relax, cutie." He snuck an arm around him, like earlier, and pulled him close. Peter gave him another shell-shocked look, and the man tilted his head. "You haven't said a thing, have you? Cat caught your tongue?" 

Peter's mouth felt dry. He placed a shaky hand on Wade's knee while he caught his breath. "Remember when you asked me i-if this stuff makes me nervous, before I kissed you?" he reminded anxiously. Wade nodded. "I'm really nervous." 

Something that looked like guilt flickered over Wade's features, but before it could be assessed the emotion was gone. "There's nothing to be nervous about. We're just sitting on the couch right now," the man reassured, "How about some cartoons. You're into that, right?" 

"Right," Peter breathed, his eyebrows knitting, "But-- But that doesn't really work here, does it? We're, like..." He couldn't finish the thought without blushing furiously, so he didn't. 

"Like?" Wade questioned, "Like, gonna make out? Do some under-the-shirt stuff? Maybe. Depends on the weather." His smile was like a sedative: Peter could feel it shutting his systems down. "Nah, don't worry about it. This is your pick, right? We're here to see where this goes." He drew the boy closer yet, his fingers creeping up to his neck to brush over his baby-hairs. Peter shivered. 

"I guess," he mumbled, slowly leaning into the touch. It felt forced, rushed, the way Wade was holding him, but he did it so well that it was too good to question. The TV was turned on, switched over to Cartoon Network, and in a moment Peter's eyes were fixated on the screen. 

Things went like that for a good fifteen minutes: Wade's fingers seeking out whatever bare skin he could to subtly caress, Peter slowly relaxing against the heat of his body, the television taking up a good seventy-five percent of the boy's attention. The moment was broken when warm lips attached themselves to Peter's jaw. He tensed, his eyes flickering over to Wade's face, then turned to jelly. The man moved his mouth lower and hummed against his neck, murmuring, "Your skin's crazy soft. What's your secret?" He gave the spot he was at a nibble, his eyes full of knowing mischief. 

Peter's breath hitched. "Water?" he questioned more than answered. His fingers curled a little where his hand was still left on Wade's knee. The man drew back with another seductive smile.

"Good answer," he complimented, teasing, "Almost coherent." He placed his free hand on Peter's thigh, rubbing gently. He looked lost in his thoughts for a moment, then he asked suddenly, "Are you tired?" 

Peter frowned at that, still a bit dazed from the intimacy. "A little, yeah," he admitted softly, "I didn't get much sleep. Why?" The look Wade gave him almost seemed relieved.

"Aw, poor doll, you look like it," he purred, his touch becoming somehow gentler, "Do you wanna nap for a little, and then when you're less tired we can try something new?" Peter bit his lip, nervous at the implications of falling asleep in the man's apartment. Wade seemed to perceive that, quickly leaning back in to leave feather-light kisses over the spot he'd nibbled. "I promise I won't peek at anything. I know I've kind of branded myself as Uncle Pervert, but I really don't act like that guy-- yet." A beat, more kisses, then more murmuring, "That was a joke again, by the way. I'm clearly joking." 

Peter relaxed minimally, finding that his head was slowly tipping sideways in a subconscious plea for more. It was hard to focus long enough to arrive at the more logical answer of ' _no'_ with Wade's lips tickling his sensitive skin. His eyelashes fluttered. "I'd be napping on the bed, right?" he questioned distractedly.

Wade laughed a little, his breath coming warm and damp against Peter's skin. "Why? Is the couch too uncomfortable for you, princess?" he teased. Peter blushed in a way that implied being called 'princess' did more for him than it should. 

"Yeah, actually," he mumbled, glancing back down at the stained surface. Wade had receded, and he was slowly collecting himself from the kisses that had been left on his throat. "It's kinda gross." 

Wade kissed him on the cheek, then scooped him up into his arms unexpectedly. "Alright, bed it is. I'll wake you up in time for happy hour, don't worry," he joked, carrying Peter over to the bed where he set him down gently. His hands free once more, he drew a blanket over the boy with a surprising amount of tenderness. The decision had been made, apparently. "Let me know if you need a teddy. I've been told I can be incredibly cuddly."

Peter's nose curled. "I'll pass for now," he said sleepily, letting out a teeny yawn. It was alarming how quick he was to trust Wade to watch over him-- or did he even trust him at all? He frowned a little. The more he thought about it, the closer he came to the realization that he hadn't agreed to a nap after all, but he was too sleepy from the cuddling and the cartoons to think about it far enough to be upset. He closed his eyes and quickly fell out of consciousness. 

 

* * *

 

Wade waited ten minutes to make absolutely sure Peter was sleeping, and then he lifted the blankets carefully. A part of him felt bad for what he was about to do. The kid was sweet and naive, and whether Wade liked to admit it or not his shy glances and rare smiles hit him right in the soft spot. Still, a big sum of money meant everything to someone like him, who was living his life in a shit-hole apartment buried in the ugly ass-crack of NYC's outskirts, and the pain he was causing would only be indirect. He rooted through Peter's pocket, freezing for a moment when the boy sighed in his sleep, then brought out his phone.  _Bingo._

He relished in his success only for a moment, remembering quickly that he'd convinced someone innocent to fall prey to his charms in the process of achieving his goals, then his excitement was spoiled. He huffed, sitting at the foot of the bed temporarily. Maybe it'd been a bad idea to execute his plan using the bright-eyed, eager-to-please teenage boy that'd presented himself to him. Maybe he should have waited longer, for something better to come. Peter had been so easy, though, so flustered and confused, that it would have been impossible for him to resist.  

As easy as he'd been to trick, he was much more difficult to betray. For one thing, Wade had made the mistake of becoming otherwise interested in his target while he was tracking him. In the process of following Peter around, he'd become addicted to his exuberance and his undeniable adorkability. Peter was passionate, considerate, and clever for his age, which made his undoing all the more bittersweet. Most people Wade played with were the trashy, desperate types, the ones he merely had to crook a finger at to get them to lose their pants. Peter, on the other hand, was a rare breed of modern teenage kid: virginal. On top of that, Peter was hopeful, something Wade had never been. From a distance, when he hardly knew them, hopeful people were easy to hurt, but up close they seemed so untouchable. He was a bad guy, sure, but that didn't mean he would enjoy stripping away a good kid's ability to believe in a greater good. 

Peter murmured a little, his nose curling cutely, and curled further into the blankets. Wade gawked at him. Everything the boy did  _dripped_  with adorable, like he'd been bestowed magical gifts by a trio of peppy fairies at birth as had Princess Aurora. How disgusting! He tore his eyes away and shook his head, his thumb skating the back of the boy's "borrowed" phone.

He knew in his heart what he was going to do, but that didn't make him feel any better. He'd be closing the door he'd managed to open a crack to a potential relationship between Peter and him if he did, for sure, and now that he had a taste of what it was like to touch him he wasn't sure that he wanted to do that. He would, but did he want to? Yes, but did he  _want_ to? God, he wanted the money and the kid, if he could have both. Maybe he could change Peter's mind about being a sugar baby. 

He unlocked the phone, using the passcode he remembered from one of the times he'd watched Peter make a phone call. He'd known following him around would be handy, too, despite the annoying side-effects. He felt Peter's legs extend and brush against his back, his warmth making it to Wade through the sheets he'd been tucked into, and the mercenary faltered. Stupid fucking kid- why couldn't he smoke weed and fuck hard like the rest of his peers? He was too good. Even the contents of his phone-- excluding the pornographic images in his search history, but all kids had a bit of that, so that didn't count-- were squeaky clean. He grumbled to himself as he found Tony Stark's contact, typing him up a sweet little message: 

' _I've got your boy. 703 Whittaker Drive. Be there in 15. Don't disappoint him. xo, Wade Wilson'_

He powered the phone off, then slipped it into his pocket as he rose to his feet. Peter snuffled in his sleep, earning a momentary glare and then a succeeding coo from Wade. He shook off the temptation to forget the meeting and stare at him all evening, then headed for the door. From underneath a set of loose floorboards, he brought out his pre-packed duffle bag. The real tough question of the day was: death by gunshot, or katana? He'd have to ask Stark. 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh okay so i was like "meh" with this chapter but it did the thing i wanted to so i guess it's alright ? i guess the point is i'm saving my juice for the next one, where shit REALLY goes down
> 
> i'll probably read it back later and edit a bit,, tbd


	13. Headstrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up to a world turned upside down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bITCH i'm hyped on angsty music let's get this DONE
> 
> p.s., the comments in response to the last chapter are hilarious. I can't wait to give y'all more

* * *

 

Peter woke up thirty minutes after he'd gone to sleep, to the sound of a door shutting. His head didn't feel much clearer than it had been when he'd fallen asleep. He rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly, drinking in the pleasant silence that greeted him. It was unpleasant after a moment, when he realized how unusual it was. Where was Wade's big mouth with a cheesy 'good morning' tagged onto some vulgar expression? As he came into full consciousness, he took an uneasy look at his surroundings. 

Wade was gone. Everything was the same as it had been when he'd fallen asleep, except for the fact that there was no Wade Wilson and a brand new hole in the apartment's flooring. He got up with a start, moving swiftly to the bathroom. "Wade?" he called, "Is this another joke?" A bone-chilling silence followed. He laughed anxiously. "Just come out already, okay? It's not even that funny." He tore back the shower curtain, finding nothing but an empty bathtub and an irrelevant rubber duck. His throat clenched. Maybe Wade had gone out for air. He reached into his pocket for his phone, but it wasn't there. He exited the bathroom hastily, ripped through the bed sheets, rooted through his pockets twice more, then accepted the fact that his phone was gone. 

The hole was the second place he looked for him. It definitely wasn't big enough of a space for a grown man to crawl into, but inside of it was a big, plastic crate of files. He lifted it out with ease, leafing through the haphazard labels:  _Mathers, Song, Jameson,_ and then suddenly,  _Stark._ He faltered, then shook the file free. It was worryingly thick.

The file started with news clippings, articles that encompassed the stories of the aftermath of the introduction of the Sokovia Accords and the now-fugitive Steve Rogers. Certain sections were highlighted, including information about the location of Stark Tower and names of Tony's associates. A couple of footnotes were scribbled on the bottom, including:  _'Can't beat him in his tin-can. Leverage needed. Potts?'_ After that, incidentally, came a slew of papers entailing interviews with Pepper Potts, and dozens of follow-up articles describing her intimate relationship with Tony. The most relevant of Wade's footnotes in that chapter was,  _'Potts is too big a case. Need another in.'_

At that point, Peter had started to get the idea. He felt a little sick.  _'Interesting,'_ was the word Wade had used to describe his relationship with Tony, he remembered. The stalking wasn't about being interested in his character, nor the mystery he'd tried so clumsily to attach to himself, but it was about finding out how he was related to Mr. Stark. Sure enough, dozens of photographs of him at school, in his room, and walking along the street came around, each captioned with minuscule updates and theories. The best of the bunch, or rather the worst, were a stapled series of photographs that captured his argument with Tony. He could feel angry tears pricking at his eyes. Word after word of, ' _Innocent,' 'Easy to trick,' 'Eager-to-please,' 'Naive,'_ put him closer to screaming his throat raw. The file was concluded with a shoddily drawn map, a large circle around a warehouse being its most interesting feature. An arrow pointing to the marking read: ' _Showdown'._ Peter knew that was where he needed to be. 

He rose to his feet, wobbled a little, and stormed over to the door. He needed his suit. Wade had his phone, which meant he had Tony's number, which meant the two could be deliberating at the ' _showdown'_ spot at that very moment. He was through with exploring his 'bad' side, done with tiptoeing around his dual identities because he had a sinking feeling somebody was keeping an eye on him. He was going to prove to Wade that he was more than capable of establishing himself as a strong individual, his youth and his thirst for acceptance aside. 

When he jiggled the doorknob, it didn't budge. He started to sweat, the skin of his arms stiffening with goosebumps, and grunted as he pried at the busted lock. He tapped into his enhanced strength, and rather than break through, he managed to destroy the knob altogether. He was stuck. He shouted and pounded his fists against the door, tears streaming down his face. 

He felt so juvenile, so incredibly stupid to have believed that even a part of him could be naughty or enticing. Guys like Wade shouldn't be allowed remotely close to any and all civilization. He was dangerous, manipulative, cold-hearted, and terrifying. Peter hadn't been tortured, hadn't been drugged, and that part of the situation was what was most difficult for him to swallow. He prided himself on his cleverness, used it to his advantage more often than any of his super-human enhancements, and yet when he'd needed it most it'd failed him.

He sunk to his knees, his lip quivering badly as a sob caught in his throat. He really was just a kid, like Mr. Stark and Happy and so many others had told him. He'd wanted to be more. He'd wanted a bite of Eve's apple, so to speak, if only to have a taste of the peculiar secret all adults seemed to be in on. He realized what the secret was: a loss of innocence. His wide-eyed wonder, his openness, his over-willingness to trust others with his safety, no adult could ever have any of it at the same capacity. Super-powers or not, newly sixteen or not, he still felt like the little child that'd donned an Iron Man mask at Stark Expo and believed himself to be a hero. He felt ridiculous. 

A distant part of him reminded himself that he wasn't alone, after all, that inside of him was the Spider-Man that took down a practiced villain and fought alongside a portion of the Avengers. He lifted his eyes and stared the door down resentfully. A thought hit him: when one door closes, a window opens. He could spend hours beating the door senselessly, using the extent of his strength and stamina to knock down the barrier like the Hulk would, or he could use his brains and find another way out. All apartments in the sector, he recalled, were required by code to have one door and one window, and that was one thing even a man like Wade couldn't evade. He stood and did a three-sixty, searching for a window frame. He knocked down take-out boxes, pushed over the shitty TV, and ripped decorations from the walls until he spotted his one-way ticket to kicking ass: a shitty wire-mesh window covered up by a collection of R&B posters. 

Peter faltered. He looked back at the door, which was composed of a sturdy metal that might be impossible to bust after all, then to the window once more. His options were bleak: he could potentially take too long knocking down the door, leaving Tony enough time to perhaps sacrifice himself in his name, or bludgeon his hand until the window was shattered. He paced, then decided to have a look around before he made up his mind. 

Wade's drawers, unluckily, didn't include any household tools. No hammers, no wrenches, not even a fire extinguisher to use as a small-scale battering ram. On the other hand, there were plenty of dirty dish towels. Peter chewed his lip, his eyes skating back to the door and window in turn, then realized that no matter the cost he'd have to go with the quickest way out. He grabbed a handful of the towels and stacked them up, cloaking his non-dominant fist with a shoddy layer of protection. It was the best he could do for himself in such a time crunch. He returned to the window, taking a deep breath in and letting it out slowly. With his free hand, he wiped his eyes and nose one last time, then, finally, he began to punch. 

With the combination of his adrenaline and his enhanced strength, the glass slowly started to shatter. It should have been easy to break, being that wire-mesh windows traditionally had too much interference from the metal laced inside for the glass to be structurally sound, yet it held strong against his punches. It must have been otherwise reinforced, he reasoned. He took a break to re-assess. Wade must have poured what money he had into reinforcing his place, perhaps even for a situation just like the one Peter was in, without expecting his potential enemies to be equipped with abilities of his caliber. He decided to continue until the deed was done, if only to prove to himself that he could do it.

Even with the multi-layered dish rags involved his knuckles already felt sore three more punches through, his hand shaking badly from the strain, but he kept at it. He screamed as he went along, putting all of us his pent-up frustrations behind each powerful punch. He could tell when he made it to the wire, because the sound of the dish towels being torn apart was deafening. He persisted, his heart beating hard. Toward the end, a particularly heated punch resulted in the wire catching on his knuckles, and he cried out in pain. When he retrieved his hand, he was careful about it, grunting softly at the dull ache, then after a quick change of dish rags he continued to beat the window down. When he finally punched fully through, his breath came in hard and painful, and he rushed his removal of the large chunks of glass he broke through, only taking care where loose wire was concerned. He hardly noticed the cuts in his palms that came after, too focused in getting out of Wade's shitty apartment and to the location that had been marked on the map to care.

Once he determined the hole was wide enough for him to wiggle through, he padded the exposed fractures with dish rags and made his escape. He tumbled out the other side and grabbed onto the window ledge to save himself from falling, crying out at the sudden pressure on his mangled hands. Never mind that, though-- he could assess the damages later, after he'd suited up and made his way to ' _703 Whittaker Drive'._ He was going to prove himself to Wade and Tony once and for all, so that neither of them would ever question him again. 

 

* * *

 

The waiting was always the best part, because it never lasted long. Wade found his seat somewhere in the rear of the warehouse, like it were his mark at center-left stage, straddling it backwards. It took five minutes for the door to screech open. Enter stage right: a suited-up Tony Stark, hovering above the ground and surveying the emptied interior of the facility in a show of caution. Wade grew impatient of watching him after only a second, calling out an instigative, "Hey! Took you long enough, Zinc Boy!" The metal head swung in his direction. 

Tony stuck his landing quietly, then without hesitation he shot his repulsor directly above Wade's head. The man flinched minutely in response, but his face hardly showed his fear. He'd prepared himself for a similar reaction. "Give me one reason not to blast your brains out," Tony snarled, approaching him rapidly. 

Wade held up a finger, retrieving a detonator from his pocket before Tony got too close. "Because I've got your boy somewhere top secret," he said smoothly, "And you and I both know you'd hate to see his insides turned into decorations." The detonator was real, just so if Stark used his machine interface to check it out it'd spook him, but its location was not shared by Peter. He liked the kid just enough that he was above blowing him up. 

Tony went still. "Put it away," he said tensely, clearly thrown off his game by the object's existence, "He's just a kid, it wouldn't make sense." He seemed to be deliberating, as if he were displeased by an answer he was getting from the disembodied voice in his suit. Wade had done enough research to recognize that look.

Wade opened his arms in a dismissive shrug, the detonator going slack in his hand just so he could put on a show of carelessness. "What about me tells you I ever make sense?" he queried, satisfied by the thick silence that followed. "Right. Now that we're past that, let's get straight to the good part." He tossed the detonator up and down, just to watch Stark squirm, and in turn he was gratified by the way the suit revved and whistled at each round. "Let's play a little game. I'm going to name you two things, and your job is to tell me which matters more to you. Here goes: the suit you're wearing, or Peter Parker?"

Tony went quiet for a long time. Wade already knew his answer, but Stark was notoriously stubborn, so he didn't expect to get what he wanted easily- except, he did. The suit powered down, and out waltzed its comically frightened occupant, complete with his signature steely gaze. Outside of his suit, Stark was nothing. Tony held up his hands and stepped closer, his lips pursed. "So that's what all of this is for?" he questioned, "A suit? Weeks of preparation and taunting an innocent kid for a  _suit_?"

Wade smirked, shook his head. "No, Professor Fink. I know for a fact that you have a special little emergency button installed in each of the bad boys you've built, just in case they fall into the hands of somebody like me," he said, unbothered, "and I'm not about to go through everything I have just to get blown up seconds after success. I actually want what's inside of it." 

Tony narrowed his eyes at him. "Are you trying to say you're here for me?" he questioned, somehow simultaneously alarmed and unbothered, "What, somebody put a hit out on _me_? Do you know what would happen to you if you killed me?" 

Wade tilted his head at him cockily. "I know what people would  _want_ to do to me, but I have a bad habit of disappearing right after I do something naughty," he dismissed once more. He was bored of the pre-amble; he wanted to have the job finished by that night. He pulled out a gun with his free hand, just so that he was fiddling with a weapon alongside the detonator. The tension in the room doubled. "But no, actually, not exactly what I meant. I needed you to get this far, but it's really one of your associates that's stirred up some trouble for himself with a couple of cons." 

Tony's mood shifted drastically. "Ah. That explains the calls you've been making to New York State Penitentiary," he mumbled, running his thumb across his chin with an icy distance in his gaze. He looked as if he were quickly realizing something, but it was difficult to come to terms with. 

Wade's eyebrows raised in a rare sign of surprise. "Somebody's been keeping tabs on me," he said excitedly, sauntering a few steps forward, "I'm flattered. You should've said something if you were so interested."

The heat returned to Tony's eyes, and he stared Wade down unamusedly. If he weren't unarmed, Wade might be intimidated. He was looking angrier by the second. "You were following Peter. I was trying to protect him," Tony all but growled, "And don't get yourself confused: I'd be ripping you apart limb from limb by now if it weren't for him." 

Wade smiled the way only crazy people could. He side-stepped, his shoulder brushing Tony's just to watch the other man flinch. "Oh, I know," he said smoothly, "That's why I've got him in the first place. You see where all your spunk gets you? He'd have been doing his homework or horsing around with his buddies right now if you weren't so unapproachable."

"Oh, yes," Tony seethed, "This is  _m_ _y_  fault." Not even sarcasm could hide the fact that he was genuinely hurt by the suggestion. He appeared to reel in his frustrations, then continued, "If you're so keen to catch whoever the hell, why are we still making idle chit-chat? Who is it you're after, and why am I involved?"

Wade was stood behind Tony at that stage, propping his chin on the man's shoulder. He was effectively between him and his suit, cutting his chances of slipping away and getting out of the warehouse unscathed down to zero. "They call him the Spider-Man," he started, watching as Tony stiffened, "Granted, eyewitness accounts make him sound more like the Spider-Kid, and the way he wears that spandex suit puts him closer to Ass-Man, but that's not what's important right now. According to my sources, you know him personally. Care to tell me who the face under the mask is?" 

Tony's head turned, his jaw colliding with Wade's nose and forcing him a step back. He stared at him blankly, studying his face with a stupefied expression. Wade didn't so much as move a muscle under his stare. "You're joking," Tony said monotonously, a single eyebrow raised, "You've got to be." 

Wade remained where he was, stuffing his non-dominant hand into his pocket. The detonator was out of view then, which he knew from experience raised the stakes up to a hundred. Where the interrogatee couldn't see the active threat, a sense of urgency was created. Wade was twice the wildcard. "Serious as a heart-attack," he purred, "A couple of guys behind bars  _really_ want to put the hurt on him, and they've got the necessary funds to get it done. So, what's the name?"

Tony shook his head. He was staring down at the pocket the detonator was stuffed into, his face full of questions and answers that he seemed to be at odds with. He looked up at Wade, his eyes shifty and terrified over something inexplicable. Before he could speak, before he could so much as move his lips, a blur of red and blue appeared at the buzzer and knocked Wade down. The detonator skittered in one direction, and Wade's gun in the other. He looked up in a daze, and lo-and-behold, it was the Spider-Man.

His job had just gotten much easier. He tried to reach for his katanas, but the man-in-spandex pinned his arms down single-handedly and punched his jaw, hard. "You dick!" Spider-Man shouted, sounding awfully familiar, "You fucking dick!" The hero punched him once more, then sagged on top of him, distracted for long enough to enable Wade to throw him off. 

The merc hopped to his feet and wiped the blood from his jaw, staring at the Spider-Man curiously. "Do I know you?" he breathed, unsheathing his weapons. "Shit, doesn't really matter, does it?" He lifted his arm, but before he could strike the masked man with his blade it was destroyed by a repulsor beam. Iron-Man was back, and Wade was officially screwed. "Aw, fuck me," he mumbled, distracted for long enough that he didn't notice the Spider-Man coming at him again.

He was punched thrice more. Strangely enough, Stark didn't participate, but rather approached the smaller hero slowly and put a hand on his shoulder. "Kid," the man said softly, "This isn't you."  _Kid_ , Wade made a mental note of,  _the Spider really is just a kid._ He bucked his hips, but his body was shoved back down harshly before he could so much as wiggle away. 

Surprisingly, the Spider-Man retired his abuse. When he receded, Wade knew better than to try to get up when he was the only one left on the ground. He took gasping breaths, his eyes darting between his two new enemies. One was equipped with a fluid capable of immobilizing him for hours (which, by the way, he felt strongly that it was a missed opportunity that his web-shooters weren't attached to his groin), and the other was armed with a pair of death-rays Wade wouldn't be walking away from. "No hard feelings, right guys?" he gasped, looking over at Tony first. He could still get away; he had one last thing left up his sleeve. "In case you forgot, you still need me if you want Parker. I'll make a clean trade with you if you let me go." Suddenly, he was being punched again. The Spider screamed as if each strike had him in agony.

Wade watched in bewilderment as the kid was torn from his body, his spandex-clad arms still swinging wildly. His chest was rising and falling rapidly underneath his spider insignia, as if he were terrified and angry at once. He tore away from Iron-Man's grip, turning his back to Wade. The Iron-Man put a hand on his shoulder and said something, quietly. 

Wade sat up. An opportunity had fallen into his hands, he realized. He could get away. He reached for his katana, forgetting the noise it would make, and in an instant he found his upper-body covered in restrictive webbing. He grunted. The Spider-Man stormed his way once more, and Stark stood behind the other hero cautiously. 

"You're unbelievable," the kid seethed, "Is that all I- Is that all Peter is, a bargaining chip? Some pathetic little bird you can lock up and make sing when you need to?" Wade's head was spinning, his nose was most definitely broken, and his vision was blurry, but he could hear the Spider-Man's voice just as well. The slip-up, the hatred, the rallying cry when he'd struck him down- it made sense, but at the same moment, it didn't.

"I don't know you," Wade said stubbornly, narrowing his eyes a hair, "So, sorry, but I don't give a shit what you think of me." It was obvious that he was piecing something together, so Tony strode forward and placed a hand on the Spider's shoulder once more. 

"Kid, go home. I can take care of this, alright? You don't-" he started to convince, but the Spider shook his hand off resentfully before he could finish. The mask's eyes shrunk up in an imitation of a glare, letting out a shrill mechanized sound. 

"I can't believe you're still calling me ' _kid'_ ," he snapped, "' _Kid'_ this,  _'kid_ _'_ that- when are you ever going to start helping me grow up?" His fingers were trembling. Wade watched, took in his small voice and his familiar posture, and begrudgingly noticed the truth.

"Peter?" he questioned. It was a big reach, but he couldn't shake off the feeling in his chest. It was his turn to be upset, to be disappointed, to be frozen by his disbelief. It couldn't be possible, it didn't seem remotely plausible, for sweet, small, jittery, unassuming--

The mask was off. Tear-stained cheeks and betrayed puppy-eyes pored down on Wade. "Am I still easy to you?" the boy croaked, looking more lost than he ever had. Wade gulped. His job had just gotten much more difficult.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really like the first half of this but the second just feels ??? like bad writing. idk, i like the ending, but it definitely could use some sprucing up. i say this about every chapter, but I'll probably edit some more later (i always fix my late-night gibberish in the morning lol). 
> 
> anyways, i hope it's more enjoyable for everyone else than it was for me
> 
> edit: major changes to the second half of this chapter have been made! If you're a second-time reader, hi, yes, it's much different. same ending, but much more logical. i like it better, for sure


	14. Renegade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The showdown takes an unexpected turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! I took a brief recess from writing so that i could, you know, do things in my life lmao. 
> 
> i tailored the path my writing is taking a bit, and boy, things are going to get crazy later
> 
> i can say that i'm 90% sure this will be a 25 chapter long fic at most, potentially with a sequel.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Peter had laid eyes on Wade, circling Tony with a detonator in hand, he was seeing red. He hardly heard their conversation, hardly cared to know what filth Wade was feeding his latest victim, before he was launching himself from the ceiling and onto the man's back. His knuckles were burning and bleeding, making the interior of his suit warm and wet. He wanted Wade to feel a similar pain. He beat and bloodied his jaw, only slowing when a troubling thought occurred to him: he was being no better than the scummy sorts he despised.

Lost in his thoughts, he was easy to topple over. His head was slammed into a beam, and he was seeing stars, grunting slightly as he struggled to sit up. It was enough time for someone to strike, surely, but the blow he dreaded never came. He could hear Mr. Stark's suit operating and knew who he had to thank for his life. He'd thank him later; Wade was a punk and deserved to be punched. The small breakthrough his conscious had made was squandered by the betrayal of his mercy. He could feel rather than hear himself screaming as each punch tore his wounded skin further underneath his gloving. It took Tony's voice, that time, to get through the ringing in his ears.

"This isn't you," he was told. He knew Tony was right. His self-instructed duty was to incapacitate, not injure. He helped old women cross the street, saved cats from trees, returned stolen vehicles and repaired broken bicycles. Spider-Man's work was helpful and charismatic, and since his experience with the Vulture he'd vowed for him to never be vengeful. His suit wasn't a toy, it was an honor. How dare he wear it just to give his anger an outlet? He could feel Wade bucking his hips to wriggle free, and he slammed him back to the ground by the chest, secretly delighted by the pained grunt the minor violence had elicited. 

Finally, he pulled himself away. He stood and stared at the space just above Wade, his shoulders rising and falling at a mean pace as he sucked in harsh breaths. He was scared of his own anger, scared of the man whose apartment he'd slept in, scared of the lingering idea that Tony could have died trying to protect him and that their last conversation would have been an unnecessary argument. "Fluid detected on the interior of the suit," Karen chimed, ever-attentive, as he began to cry, "Would you like me to activate the self-dry feature, Peter?" 

Peter sniffled. "No, Karen," he whispered. His eyes sunk down as Wade began to speak again, his voice sending unpleasant shivers down Peter's spine. He'd never hated someone as much as he hated Wade, both for the way he'd manipulated him into a situation he'd never engage in in his right mind, and the people he'd made him push away.  

"... you still need me if you want Parker. I'll make a clean trade with you if you let me go," he caught onto Wade suggesting. He curled his fingers back into fists. Yes, he was going to betray the sanctity of Spider-Man once more just to break Wade's perfect nose. He could feel Tony tearing him away after two quick jabs and a violent scream. 

His body was hoisted into the air, but his arms and legs continued to thrash. It wasn't even Wade specifically that he wanted to hit at that stage: he wanted to punch down every beam in the building; toss every leftover crate in the warehouse at its walls and watch them splinter into nothingness; bash an angry hole into the concrete floor until his fingers snapped and his lungs seized like a paper bag. He couldn't articulate the feeling with words beyond his violent wants, but he knew why it existed. He'd turned into the quirky teen in a drama that went around proving to the audience time and time again that they couldn't be trusted with their own safety, that they  _deserved_ every wrong that'd been done to them on account of their own stupidity. He hated himself in that moment, almost as much as he hated Wade.

He shook his body free of Tony's arms, but rather than take a running start and sink his fist into Wade's face once more, he turned toward the wall and tried desperately to collect himself. A hand was placed on his shoulder, and although at first he flinched, his body went slack and the ringing in his ears disappeared. He tilted his head slightly, listening as Tony murmured, "None of this-  _none_ of it- was your fault. When you punch that guy, however much he deserves it, you're only punishing yourself. Hell, I know how much better it feels in the moment to  _destroy_ , but when you go home and say 'hello' to your loved ones it burns a hole in your gut. You don't need that, Peter." He was about to nod reluctantly, turn and thrust his arms around the cold metal of Tony's suit, when he heard a soft _shink_ behind him. He knew what it was without looking. He launched his webbing without hesitation. 

When Wade's body  _thudded_ uselessly to the ground, he turned to face him again. His mind was racing. He strode forward, his heart pounding like a caged animal against his breast, and in feeling Tony's eyes on his back he reminded himself of the wisdom he'd been gifted. This time, he would stop and use his head, and he would  _not_ further prove himself to be the despised teenaged trope.

"You're unbelievable," he seethed, "Is that all I-" He had tripped over his words in his frustration, narrowly catching himself. His stomach flopped. His mind was full of Wade strangling May, Wade shanking him in his sleep. He felt as if the situation had towered above him and washed over his body like a tsunami. It was the smallest of slips, but it would be the biggest of mistakes to reveal himself to someone who wanted to take his life. He continued, nevertheless: "Is that all Peter is, a bargaining chip? Some pathetic little bird you can lock up and make sing when you need to?"

Wade was staring at him strangely, then, apparently having soaked in each and every one of his words. Peter knew he was screwed, his frantic voice already ever recognizable. He was losing air. He hardly heard Wade's response, but he felt Tony's hand back on his shoulder and his voice in his ear saying, "Kid, go home..." He was numb to the rest of it. He was still 'kid', still a child after busting out of a high-security window and saving Mr. Stark from a sticky situation. He was still just 'kid', and that was probably what he would always be, but he refused to stand by it. 

"I can't believe you're still calling me 'kid'," he snapped, "'Kid'  this, 'kid'  that- when are you ever going to start helping me grow up?" He could feel his fingers shaking, could hear his heartbeat in his ears. 

"High levels of stress detected," Karen announced, "Would you like me to contact Mr. Stark?" An emergency phone icon popped up in the front of his vision, clearly a recently uploaded update to his suit that helped Tony keep tabs on him. Oh, the irony.

He couldn't reply to Karen, couldn't even fuss over the revelation aloud, because suddenly Wade had rasped, "Peter?" He realized that meant he was hopeless to escape the issue. He faced him, slowly, frightened at the prospect that people could discover him without ever seeing him take off the mask. That he did, sticking the nail in the coffin. His throat was clenching, his vision was blurring, and his chest was aching. 

"Am I still easy to you?" he demanded to know, pinching the fabric of the mask between his fingers. He watched as Wade inhaled sharply and laid his head on the concrete. 

"Holy shit," the merc exhaled, "It's you. It's been you this whole goddamn time.  _Fuck me_." Watching him struggle with the news was bitter-sweet for Peter. On the one hand, he'd managed to out-trick a trickster, but on the other he'd expanded his catalogue of dangerous characters that knew his secret to two. He would never escape his nightmares at that rate. 

Tony surged forward before the situation could further escalate, pressing a foot down on Wade's chest. The man wheezed underneath it, and Peter watched it happen with an absence in his eyes. "If you know what's good for you, you'll forget that," Mr. Stark growled, "Or I'll hunt you down and end your miserable life. I'd do it now if it weren't for the fact that I think somewhere in the back of your perverted mind you'd enjoy the feeling. You're  _disgusting_."

Peter watched as Wade swallowed and shook his head, those sharp brown eyes he recalled in a flash from his picture up at Sister Margaret's going damp from exertion. "Match my employer's offer," he grunted, ever the cocky asshole, "and for once in my life, I'll keep my mouth shut." His eyes skated over to Peter's for a moment, and if the boy didn't know better he could swear he could detect guilt in them. 

Tony stomped his foot on the man's gut, and Peter looked away with a wince. There was a loud _crunch_ that came with it, echoing sickeningly throughout the warehouse. "Didn't you just hear me?" Tony exclaimed, unbothered by the concerning choking noises Wade was making underneath him, "I said I'm not going to kill you. You deserve  _nothing_ more than that." 

Wade laughed deliriously, barely catching any breath based on the disturbing gasping sounds he was making. Peter snuck a glance, and he could see blood at the corners of his bruising lips. He looked away again quickly. "If I cared about my life more than money," the man wheezed, "I wouldn't have taken the job in the first place." He groaned and squealed low in his throat from strain, huffing under the pressure of Iron-Man's boot. "And I play enough poker to know when somebody's bluffing: you wouldn't kill me so long as Peter can see." 

Peter could feel the eyes of both men on him. He glanced at Mr. Stark, his eyes full of regret and apology. He'd only made things worse for the both of them. He should never have pestered him for a job in the first place. If he'd just gone home all those weeks ago, like Happy had told him to, none of what was happening would have been possible. He watched as Tony looked back at the man and asked, with a sigh, "How much?" 

Peter swallowed thickly. He strode forward, shoving Tony's suit in the back with a great amount of force. It swayed, then settled back into place, making Wade cry out in pain. "You're seriously negotiating with this guy?" Peter exclaimed, his brow furrowed, "He doesn't deserve any money, period. He's a freaking psychopath! You pay him now, and he'll only come back later." 

"Au contraire," Wade interjected, spitting out a couple drops of blood. Peter staggered back, his eyes going a bit wide, and at the sight of the boy's fear Tony let up a bit of the pressure he was putting on the mercenary's torso. Wade gasped, staring at Peter in a way that made him uneasy. "I'm a dick, but I'm not stupid. If Daddy Stark can pay my losses, I'll be on my way, flushing all memory of the itsy bitsy Parker once and for all." 

Peter's lips twitched at the corner. He glared at Wade venomously. "You're lying," he spat, "everything you've ever told me has been a lie." 

Wade shook his head, squirming his upper body in the webbing. Tony's highest level of pressure returned, making him return to being still. "The only time I lie is when it's convenient for me," he managed, wincing in pain, "and that's a good fifty percent of my conversations with people. Now, I'm no expert on Stark's products, but I'm ninety percent sure he's got a handy dandy lie detector feature in the very suit he's wearing. Now, why would I lie to somebody like that? I'd just get killed on the spot." He grinned up at Tony, his teeth painted red. The boot was removed, then, and Wade didn't so much as twitch. 

Peter frowned at his idol. "Is that true?" he questioned him, "You can tell if he's lying?" 

"Yeah, actually," Tony responded, crossing his arms, "I can. It's more of a heart-beat tracking type of thing than a 'lie detector', but it does the same job. That's why I'm trying to make a deal here." He looked at Peter, who frowned indignantly. "Look, do you really think a handful of the money I make is more important to me than you staying safe? I mean, come on, I'm not a monster." 

Peter dropped his gaze and swallowed thickly. "This is my fault, though," he croaked, "I should be cleaning up this mess." 

Tony appeared at his side. "Hey," he started, his mask opening to reveal his face full of concern. His voice was dripping with authority. "What'd I just get finished telling you back there, before Wilson tried to hack a chunk off of you and run off?"

Peter thought about it for a while. His shoulders slumped, and he glanced up at Tony sideways. "That none of this is my fault," he mumbled, not believing it. Tony nodded at him nevertheless. 

"That's right," he confirmed, "and as such, we've still got to do whatever it takes to metaphorically cut this cancer out of your life. So don't beat yourself up, go home and rest- I'll cover the fee, and then if you feel like it we'll grab dinner or something." Wade cleared his throat, and both Peter and Tony shot him eerily identical glares. 

"Sorry," Wade grunted, "Just thought you might want to save the touching conversation for  _after_ the charming asshole's departure. You do you, though. I'll just listen, I guess." He tilted his head and stared. Tony cleared his throat uncomfortably, looking back at Peter, who stared back in distaste. He was conflicted, because he'd come with the intention of proving himself, but now Tony was telling him what _he_ wanted, and at that point he didn't trust his own heart. He'd rather take direction, he decided, too tired and too guilty to argue more than he already had. He nodded slightly, to which Tony gave him a thin smile.

"Alright, I'll go home," he agreed in a quiet voice, feeling that he owed Tony at least a little bit of obedience. Besides, if he could spend a week hanging on to every word a scumbag like Wade had to say to him, he could handle listening to what Mr. Stark had to say just that once. "Call me when you take care of this." He swallowed thickly, his eyes teeming with fresh tears. "I'm sorry again, Mr. Stark. I won't ever do something like this again, I swear." 

Tony nodded a little, then surprised Peter with a kiss on the forehead. He kept his face close, his eyes full of care and acceptance. He looked in every account like a genuine proud father. "Good kid," he murmured, "Better than I ever was." His mask closed once more, and he returned to Wade's side, squatting down so they could negotiate without Peter hearing. 

Peter wiped his eyes and put on a brave face. He'd given his word, and it was time for him to carry through with it, no matter how against his nature it was to turn tail when things got bad. He tugged the mask back on over his head and left quickly, headed home for copious amounts of Ben & Jerry's and whatever the hell was on re-runs at the moment. Later, he decided, he would soak one of Tony's glamorous suits with snot and tears in apology. He wouldn't let himself live his biggest mistake down. 

 

* * *

 

Peter tucked into a carton of ice cream and settled on _The Adventures of Robin Hood_ for a movie. May had yet to come home, since it was only five o'clock in the evening, so he was alone to reflect on his mistakes and give the occasional remorseful cry. He was anxious to hear from Tony, if only to know for sure that he hadn't spoiled everything for the both of them. He knew in his heart that no matter whether the issue was settled, its memory would never leave him. He knew that he would still feel Wade's lips, still see his evil eyes, still hear his taunting voice and the echoes of the words he'd read on paper long after the man was gone from his life. His knuckles would be scarred, at least temporarily, based on the care he'd needed to give them when he first got home. They were drowned in Neosporin and bandages by then. He brushed the padding over his lips and let his tears dampen it. 

There was a knock on the door. He glanced over his shoulder nervously, remembering the last time someone had knocked that it'd been Wade Wilson, and rose carefully from the couch. He grabbed a kitchen knife, and while he took the time to do so the person at the door knocked again. He moved to it slowly, opened it a crack, then let out a heavy sigh of relief when he saw it was Tony. "Mr. Stark," he breathed, more then relieved to see him cleaned up and unharmed, "Give me a sec, the door's bolted." 

He closed the door, put away the knife in a hurry, then returned to it and unfastened the bolt. The door swung open. He stepped aside, and Tony sauntered into the apartment. "Place still has its charm," the man complimented, turning to face Peter as the boy closed the door. He smiled fondly as Peter stared at him with his eyes full of unspoken concerns. "Wilson's been paid off and punished accordingly. Nobody will be breathing a word about who Spider-Man is anytime soon." 

Peter's lower lip wobbled. He surged forward and wrapped his arms around Tony before he could be stopped, and in turn the man rested an awkward hand on his shoulder. "Thank you," he murmured, "Thank you so much, Mr. Stark. I-I won't ever let you down again, I promise, I--"

"You never 'let me down'," Tony interjected, lasting longer in the hug than Peter had expected. He was surprisingly warm and supportive, so Peter melted further into it. When he closed his eyes, he expected to feel Ben, but the hug was so addled with signature Stark charm- barely-there but twice as warm in feeling- that he couldn't possibly compare the two. "It's everyone else that let  _you_ down. Yeah, you pissed me off a little when you hung up on me-  _twice-_ but by no means was I 'let down'." Peter nodded quickly, looking up at him. He could tell Tony was getting antsy, so he drew back and wiped his eyes dry on his sleeve. 

"Okay," he acknowledged thickly, "If you say so." He gaze flickered to the floorboards, then back up to Tony's face. The man was fixing him with a curious stare. 

"Korean, or pizza?" he asked suddenly, placing a careful hand on Peter's shoulder. It took a while for Peter to understand what he was referring to, but once he got it, he smiled softly. 

"Korean," he chose, "Just let me go get dressed first." Tony nodded at him in understanding, removing the hand from his shoulder in favor of slipping it into his pocket. 

"I'll be waiting in the car," he informed, "so don't take too long." The moment seemed to have passed as quickly as it had come, but in truth it was living on through Tony's abrupt way of healing the heart. He'd taken Peter out for dinner a week after his death scare, on account of May's dismal reports of his demeanor. The food, the advice, and the conversation that ensued was the majority of the reason the boy had been able to cope with the trauma.

He smiled weakly at Mr. Stark over his shoulder, on the way to his room. "I won't," he vowed. He had a feeling it would take more than one dinner for him to be set straight that time, but he didn't care so long as he had Tony and May to help him through it. God,  _May_ \- he still had to tell her. Tomorrow, he decided, when his head was clearer. There was always tomorrow.

 

* * *

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmmmmILOVEDADTONY


	15. Weightless / Live And Let Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time goes by, and Peter hangs on by a thread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm posting sporadically this weekend because i've gone away for a reunion. HOWEVER, when I'm not driving i'll take the time to type some stuff up during the car ride, so there's a possibility for a double update on Monday (that'd be according to EST for those of you that live a day ahead of me)

* * *

  

Evidently, four weeks was too little time for a heart to heal. 

Peter's nightmares had returned shortly after his last encounter with Wade Wilson. His interaction with the Vulture had taken him long enough to forget, so ever since his nightmares had started revolving around two evil figures rather than one he felt hopeless to stop them. At night his mind construed bone-chilling images of the two scheming together to make his life miserable in any way that they could, resulting in the Vulture's claws plunging deep into his bowels and Wade's katanas severing his head from his shoulders. Sometimes, the nightmares picked up from where he'd fallen asleep in Wade's apartment, and in them he would awaken to the two of them settling over his body with their weapons. He shivered at just the memory.

A distant part of himself recognized that Wilson had been paid off, yet he still felt unsafe whenever he was alone. He'd become clingy again, like he'd been with May as a small child, and his loved ones were adjusting to it as best as they could. It made him feel guilty knowing how burdensome he'd become. He just didn't trust himself on his own anymore. He called Tony as often as the man was willing and able to listen, and he spent the majority of his nights doing his homework pressed up against May's side. When both of his parental figures were busy, he hung out with Ned or MJ or put time into his flourishing collection of photographs. 

He usually kept his camera and the pictures he took in a shoebox under his bed. The ones at the surface weren't anything special: dewy grass, teaming coffee mugs, a couple of his friends caught off-guard. The best were the images he got from rooftops and treetops, the ones "Spider-Man" took, where everyone and everything couldn't see him. He'd captured skylines, couples on benches, a yapping terrier sneaking itself a hotdog while a vendor's back was turned, etc etc. His favorite to date was an image of a lone man on a bridge, bearded and weary-eyed, with a cigarette cradled between his beefy, callused fingers. He wondered what was on his mind. 

He sat with his shoebox on the staircase of his high school's side entrance, his legs crossed awkwardly. He was waiting for the end of the newspaper club's student leader meeting, his box cradled between his thighs as he searched for the right photo to present for the cover page. He kept fiddling with an aerial view of a little girl running through an empty playground, finding that he enjoyed the way her butterfly barrette gleamed in the sun. He felt someone settle up against his right side, and he knew without looking that it was Michelle. "Got any good shots from the football game?" she questioned, leaning forward to sneak a look at his photos, "Corrie's in a bit of a pinch, since Ms. Reiner can't handle the fact that none of us went." 

Peter slid the picture he was holding back into his box, then closed it. He smiled at Michelle softly. "Naw, you're out of luck," he answered, "I'm not a sports guy, remember?" Michelle nodded, clearly having already known her answer. 

"And that's one of many reasons why we became friends," she said, tilting her head at him. She raised an eyebrow after a moment. "You haven't seriously still got that creepy guy on your mind, have you?" Peter cringed. He'd forgotten he'd told Michelle- or rather, he'd forgotten that Ned had accidentally let the information loose when he saw the bags under Peter's eyes last week. He shook his head slightly, wetting his lips. 

"I sort of can't help it," he mumbled, "It wasn't a huge chunk of time I had to deal with him, I guess, but I still can't shake the feeling of being... trapped." He shuddered, setting the box aside and curling his knees to his chest. That had been fun to fill his friends in on: he'd been locked up in a pedophile's apartment, and the aforementioned pedophile had only let up on following him around after Tony-freaking-Stark had paid him off. Of course, the version of the story Ned had received was far more detailed, but so went the secrets involved in keeping secret identities as they were.

Michelle's hand crept onto his upper back to comfort him. Above them, the sky was muted with peppercorn clouds. "Well, I don't expect you to, that's for sure," she said cooly, gazing up at the skyline, "but it'd be nice to have your head in the game once in a while." She glanced back over at him, and he caught her eye with a guarded expression. "Why don't you come back inside, and we can talk newspaper? Guys like you function better under stress when there's more on their plate." There was no question in her assumption. Peter nodded slightly, because after all, she was right. As he whole-heartedly believed, the only way he could get through what he was going through was for him to keep busy enough for it to slip to the back of his mind.

Tony had told him otherwise, though, which threw him for a loop. He'd have to consult him again after his clubs let out. 

 

* * *

  

It had been four weeks, and Wade's lungs still burned when he breathed. He'd taken care of fractured ribs on his own in the past, and never had the fullest extent of the pain lasted so long. That night at Sister Margaret's, after a full day of putting together his new apartment, he had put four glasses of whiskey down and he was still aching terribly. Weasel was watching him from a careful distance, cleaning up cups and casting trouble-makers unamused glances. Eventually, he approached Wade, sliding him a crystal glass of his most toxic drink. The mercenary raised an eyebrow at him, then knocked it back with a wince and a grunt. 

"That's not on the house, by the way," Weasel informed as he took the seat across from Wade, "and I know you've got the money to pay for it now, so no bullshit." Wade nodded a little, sliding the empty glass from hand-to-hand like a puck between two players. He stared at it absently, mostly occupied by the pain in his chest. The quiet that answered Weasel's statement was the biggest and boldest of red flags. "What, no wise-crack? How fucked up are you?" 

Wade glanced up at him, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. "Enough," he grunted, "The shit I do for money, right?" He rolled back in his seat, a bitter edge to the manic smile that was creeping onto his face. "Tin-Man only used his fucking  _foot_ to do this, and I'm still licking my wounds. Go figure, right?" He squeezed his glass, feeling Weasel's eyes on him. His knuckles were whitening. His brow furrowed, his fingers trembled, and just before the first cracks could appear the glass was snatched from his hand. 

"Yeah, you're not breaking any more of my shit," Weasel huffed, holding the empty crystal-ware protectively to his chest. He surveyed Wade. "Man, you really do look like shit. Did he fuck your face or something? What's with the bruises if he only used his foot?" Still reeling a little from his miniature episode, Wade looked up slowly. He took a shaky breath, laughed it out, and rubbed his face. 

"Here's the kicker: it was the kid that fed me the knuckle sandwich," he filled-in, feeling his throat thicken at the memory, "Peter." He swallowed thickly, moving his eyes to blink at a far wall. Wasn't he pathetic? He missed talking to a teenaged boy. It was a distant feeling, one he couldn't fully understand with how addled his brain was, but it was still heavy in his chest. It could just as easily be blamed on his fucked-up ribs, he reasoned, but there would always be a part of him that remembered just how soft his soft spot had gotten in that warehouse. 

Weasel's eyebrows raised in apparent disbelief. "Wow. The one you called pretty?" he questioned, to which Wade nodded. He let out a little laugh, and with Wade's eyes on him he made a meaningless gesture with his fingers to emphasize his surprise. " _Wow_. Pretty really does hurt, huh?"

Wade choked on a reluctant laugh, then groaned in pain as his lungs skipped up against his aching ribs. " _You motherfucking dick-chomper,_ " he swore under his breath in reaction, slamming his fist on the table. He took a couple of deep breaths to steady himself, though they only proved to worsen his pain. His fellow patrons hardly batted an eye at the outburst. " _God,_ get me another drink already, dip-shit. I thought I told you: I want you to get me fucked up enough that I won't be able to feel my body go into lethal shock." He stared Weasel down, and the man held his hands up in surrender.

"Take it down a couple of notches, diva," he grumbled, disappearing to the bar for a moment. He returned with a full bottle of Wade's favorite hard liquor. "This one's pretty aged, so the standard price is double for it. I know you understand." Wade hardly reacted to what he was being told, instead snatching the bottle from Weasel's hands and chugging about a quarter of its contents down in five seconds flat. Weasel's eyebrows skyrocketed. "Woah, easy there, tiger. I can almost hear your liver killing itself." When the bottle was back on the table, and both of them were seated once more, Wade started to sway from side-to-side. His lower lip quivered. He felt close to vomiting.

"What's happening to me?" Wade rasped, comically mopey, "I feel like a fucking teenager again, man. I'm hung up on a kiss, my ribs are broken, my liquor's getting to me- fuck,  _major_ throwback to my thirteenth birthday, actually. All I'm missing is my foreskin." He wiped his mouth off on his sleeve and cradled his ribs with his free arm. Weasel shifted uncomfortably. 

"Shit, I don't know what to say," the man muttered. There was a pause, and he seemed to be measuring one thing versus another in his head. He raised a hand, winding up a little as his mouth opened and closed, then huffed as if he was having difficulty with putting something out there. He pinched the bridge of his nose and started at last, "If you're really that bad, go see a doctor or something. You've got the money for it now, right? Shouldn't be too bad of an idea to get yourself checked up on." It was the first legitimate advice he'd given Wade in the time that they knew each other. It made Wade's skin crawl a little. What was wrong with them? It was the sappiest thing he'd ever heard in Sister Margaret's, strangely enough, and it had him closer yet to hurling.

Wade pursed his lips. As foreign as the concept of sharing advice was for the two of them, which was evident in their awkward expressions and the tense silence that had overcome them, the advice was valid. He could be facing a major health problem, and with his recent big break opening up bigger and better opportunities in his life, he didn't want to deal with that. He nodded, slowly. "That I might, my friendly fairy princess," he sighed, to which the tension was broken. Weasel stood and punched him in the arm on the way back to the bar. 

"Shut the fuck up with that fairy shit," he grunted, shaking his head. It was obvious that he appreciated the hasty return to the usual, violence aside. His retreating figure illuminated in green neon, he paused mid-walk, catching Wade's fading attention. "And by the way, I'd be super pissed if you died over a couple of broken ribs- you're, like, the only guy with actual money that comes here now. Also, Rodney put your name on the dead pool, and I  _fucking hate that guy_."

Wade smirked. This time, the sudden sappiness was better-executed and easier to swallow. He raised his bottle in a mock-salute. "Hear, hear," he agreed. He took another swig of his liquor, mentally fitting an appointment into his schedule.

He was going to keep living, even if it killed him.

 

* * *

 

"Are you sure about this, guys?" Peter asked once more, beside himself with discomfort. He glanced through the darkness in Michelle's direction, and in the dim moonlight he caught the world's glowing reflection in her eyes. His fingers drifted to the lens of his camera subconsciously, which hung loosely from his neck.  Ned's hand appeared at his shoulder, shaky but surprisingly supportive. 

"Yeah, actually- are we sure?" Ned added, his brows knitting anxiously. He was never one for trouble, never the sort of kid to sneak out past curfew and clamber up a cliffside, yet there he was proving beyond a doubt that he was loyal and compassionate to Peter's feelings. 

Michelle rolled her eyes in response to both of their doubts. She turned to face them, tucked her bangs behind her ear, then shrugged indifferently. "Look, I brought you here because I know for a fact that the view up there is irreplaceable, and I figured a couple of guys I'm willing to call my friends wouldn't be lame enough to pass up on the opportunity," she huffed, her eyes passing over them disapprovingly. "It's not even something we could get seriously busted for, or I wouldn't be doing it, either." 

Peter wet his lower lip, tilting his head back and getting a better look at what was in store for them. It wasn't that he was afraid of heights (because that would make  _no sense_ whatsoever, considering his part-time job as a web-slinging free-faller) so much as he was afraid of somebody else falling. What if, in that situation, he couldn't save them in time? What if he had to reveal himself to ensure their safety? The possibilities were as endless as they were messy. He took a shaky breath, convincing himself. "Fine. Let's do it," he agreed, his brow set in determination. 

Behind him, Ned wavered. "I'll wait down here," he said slowly, taking a step away from the cliffside, "I'm not exactly a 'views' type of guy." The path up was steep, meaning that it would be physically taxing, which Peter assumed was the majority of his friend's issue with the trip to the top. To boot, if someone were to grow tired and slip during the trek, there were no railings and no footholds to stop them from tumbling. Still, it'd be a shame for them to have walked together so far only for Ned to stick to the trusted ground.

Peter nudged his side with a faint smile. "Hey, no way am I going to go take a look at this without you," he said, unyielding, "You skipped taco night for this." He raised his eyebrows, knowing that his concluding point would be the most effective. As expected, Ned's face transformed into that of a man whose mind had been changed. 

"I  _did_ pass on delicious Mexican food for this," he mumbled, slowly moving forward once more. "Fine, I'll join you guys, but if I so much as scratch a knee you'll both be hearing from me later." Peter grinned, trailing after Ned with a slight shake of his head. 

"I'll take it," he giggled. Michelle was already ahead of them, but her smile could be seen trapping starlight from above. The trio laughed on their trip up. Peter closed the shutter on his camera, and with several deep breaths, he persevered. 

 

* * *

  

"Well," the doctor began, fiddling with his pen uncomfortably, "I'm afraid that I have to deliver some bad news."

Wade didn't like the sound of the new direction their conversation was taking. A moment ago they'd been talking about the stupid, little things, like football and automobiles and time shares oversees, then suddenly they were discussing mortality. He tilted his head at the other man, his charming smile still fixed in place. "Good news, bad news," he said cooly, "It's all news, right?" It was a semi-nervous statement. No news was bad news to doctors unless it couldn't be fixed; they dealt with surfacing bones and serrated flesh  _constantly_. 

The doctor scarcely smiled back at him. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Son, how old are you?" he asked softly, leaning closer to Wade. His gaze was sad and tired. Wade's eyebrows raised at its intensity. 

"Thirty-six," he answered skeptically, his fingers skating the cold edge of his seat. The doctor paled slightly. "Why? Are you putting together my dating profile?" His humor didn't land, clearly, as the doctor put his glasses back on and picked up his clipboard. He frowned down at the top page, and just as Wade leaned closer in an effort to sneak a preview of the news he'd be receiving he covered it with his chest. 

"Have you got anyone that you love in this life?" he asked, leaning back in his leather swivel chair. Even at Wade's surprised laugh, his stare was unwavering. 

Wade cleared his throat and chuckled, "That's direct of you, but no." He couldn't help but think of soft brown eyes and the faint smell of lemon cake, and his mouth was filled with the sweet memory of tomato sauce and maple syrup. He wasn't sure why; he'd never loved anyone before. He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheeks and crossed his arms, chasing away the distance in his gaze. "I'm not sure what this has to do with the news you're giving me, doc." 

The doctor nodded a little, seemingly less burdened. "Because, Mr. Wilson," he began bluntly, "Now would be the wrong time to start looking." He flipped the clipboard back into view, his eyes full of apology. He looked as if he were about to kill Wade, and perhaps, in a sense, he was. "I'm sorry, Wade," he sighed, "but you seem to be in the late stages of cancer." 

Wade's world started spinning. He squeezed the arms of his chair, leaned forward, and felt his throat quiver as he struggled with words. "That's not a very funny joke," he grumbled, raising an eyebrow. "That's what it is, right?'

The doctor shook his head and averted his eyes, as if Wade were already a lifeless body propped up in the seat opposite him. "I'm afraid not," he continued, staring down at the clipboard. "At this stage in your illness, I'd say you have a month without chemotherapy, and three with it. It's your call." Wade stared at him in open horror, frozen in disbelief. He shrunk in his seat. After everything, after a lifetime of abuse and risky business, his own body would be delivering the final blow. He felt useless. How had he not noticed his sickness earlier? How could no one have spotted the signs for him?

 _That's right,_ he remembered,  _I turned the whole world against me, except for one greedy bartending bastard._

 _Of course,_ he realized,  _I'm going to die alone._ He held up a finger in vague warning, then bent over his knees to puke all over the floor. The doctor appeared to be used to it. Wade wondered how many death sentences he'd dealt in his lifetime up until that point.

 

* * *

  

Peter stared up at the star-speckled sky dreamily, flanked at either side by his two best friends. Their feet were draped over the cliffside, which was an incredible amount of fearlessness for the trio considering their individual natures, and their arms were clinging onto one another. He felt vaguely (and oddly) invincible, as if, so long as they kept holding on to each other, there was no likelihood of them ever falling.

The view, as Michelle had promised them, was breathtaking. From where they were sat, Peter could see a million city lights and a swarm of New York City traffic, all of which reflected stunningly against the inky-black lacquer of the nighttime harbor. Ned pointed excitedly to a ferry, which left in its wake delicate little ripples of water. Peter lifted his camera and took a picture to remember the moment by.

MJ smiled at him. " _This_ ," she said excitedly, "Is cover-page worthy. Connie's labrador retriever can eat its heart out." Peter laughed a little, zooming in his lens to take a better version of his first photo. When that failed to appease him, too, he zoomed back out and captured a third. 

"You have to admit, the dog is pretty cute," he pointed out to her, nudging her side slightly. With his hands free from Michelle's and Ned's backs, he felt slightly less secure, but the fear was more than made up for when they crowded closer in compensation. 

"Cute, yes, but  _captivating_? No," she elaborated, her eyes darting over the real-life landscape the world had presented them with, "Drooling, though? Absolutely. I give that dog a perfect score in the category of drooling." Peter tipped his head back and laughed out loud, and Ned chuckled along based on the minimum he knew of newspaper club. 

"Connie would  _love_ to hear that from you," he chirped, "Man, she'd take the compliment and run a 5k with it." He glanced over at Michelle, setting his camera back down against his chest. She rolled her eyes at that, miming a gun to her head and pulling the trigger. The conversation carried on from there predictably, with a dozen little inside jokes that rotated between the three of them. When a full hour of conversation and picture-taking had been realized, they assisted one another in standing back up and descending from the clifftop. 

On the way down, Peter spared the view one last inspired look. He'd missed the rare moments he could simply exist with his friends, enjoying treasures like a moonlit escapade somewhere close enough to home that no one was panicked. He'd missed horsing around like usual, taking kind-hearted jabs at one another's expense, and feeling truly as if he was still a teenaged kid. He'd realized, with time, that for the past year he'd been too eager to grow up, too caught up in the idea that maturity meant instant closure to enjoy the freedom that came with not needing to think about anything in particular whatsoever. Moreover, after over a month of dwelling on the mistakes he'd made with Wade, he'd finally gone through an outing without a single thought in his direction. Surely, there would be more ups and downs in the future, but he would take the small victory as it had come to him.

 _Of course,_ he realized, facing his friends once more with his face full of love,  _I'll_ never  _be alone._

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one took me longer to write than I expected, but I wanted to get it juuust right
> 
> i took two short chapters and combined them into one fluid idea (hence the double song title). besides, i LOVE pointing out contrasts between characters :p
> 
> i hope y'all enjoy!


	16. My Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wades comes to terms with the terminal, and Peter proceeds to progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FUCKING WROTE OUT THIS WHOLE CHAPTER AND MY COMPUTER CRASHED AND I TWAS SO GOOD I WAS SO MAD THAT I HAD TO TAKE A BREAK FROM WRITING JUST TO GET OVER IT THAT CHAPTER WAS MY BABY ;-;
> 
> **TRIGGER WARNING: suicidal thoughts/feelings, mentions of abuse** (I might add it to the tags, give me your thoughts)

* * *

   


Peter breathed in, then breathed out, and the bell rang just like that.

Another school year had come to a close. He was through with finals at last, and despite knowing how much time he'd spent studying, he was still worried for his grades. Ned assured him, like always, that he was smart enough to achieve the A's he desired. The two waved goodbye to one another after their traditional walk-out, knowing well that they'd be skyping that night over the latest episode of their favorite show. 

Peter plugged in his earbuds and inhaled the fresh summer air. New York City, which was rarely warm, did a funny thing around June, where it crept up past eighty degrees fahrenheit and made the pits of his sweaters damp with sweat. He'd have to remember to change into a t-shirt and shorts once he was back home- after phoning Tony, of course. Mr. Stark had made it abundantly clear that, for whatever reason, he wanted to be called straight after school let out for him. Peter made the assumption that the call could wait until after his favorite Calvin Harris song. 

He took the long way to the subway, not in any hurry to be home despite the sudden heat. He was happy to be freed of his school obligations, since no homework and no clubs to think about meant more time for Spider-Man to be active in the crime-fighting community. He'd spent plenty of time over the course of his final couple of months in school tinkering with his suit and making small adjustments with Tony. Since their encounter with Wade Wilson, the two spent plenty of time working side-by-side, which Peter was clever enough to realize was Mr. Stark's method of keeping a closer eye on him. He didn't mind so much, though, since it meant he got plenty of much-needed mentoring in. Besides, in a strange way he felt safer in Stark Tower, with the watchful eyes of someone he trusted on him.

Still, he felt guilty for the changes the adults in his life had made to help him re-adjust. After May had had the Wade Wilson ordeal explained to her (Tony had taken care of it, being outraged that Peter hadn't already done it himself), she increased her time working during the week so that during the weekends she was home to watch over Peter. Beyond that, she poked through his things frequently, and whenever she was around to witness his phone calls and texts she made sure to question them thoroughly. Part of the increased suspicion was suffocating for Peter, and part of it felt necessary. He was beyond being capable of distinguishing whether his anxiety was from his aunt breathing down his neck or the looming threat that Wade might still return to hurt him. Aunt May's adjustments aside, Tony had gone so far as to move his things back into Stark Tower and decrease his time at the "Avengers'" new base, just so he was local often enough to make his more frequent interactions with Peter possible. He'd made sure he was nearby not only so he could respond to Peter's sporadic distress calls whenever he was needed, but so that he could drop by whenever he felt too much time had gone by since their last communication. Tony's concept of "too much" was, surprisingly, very little.

Peter turned the corner for the subway station, descending a set of stairs and humming along to his music. His phone began to ring, suddenly, which shocked him enough that he slid down a step extra than he'd wanted to. He grabbed the railing and barely caught his bearings in time to stop himself from falling the rest of the way down. Behind him, an old woman scoffed, which made his cheeks turn red from embarrassment. He looked down at his phone with a heavy sigh, knowing instantly what the call was going to be about when he saw the contact. "Hello?" he answered breathlessly, ascending the stairs once more so their signal would remain in-tact.

"Ah. So you aren't busy," Tony replied, mock-surprised. Peter recognized an anxious edge to his voice, which usually occurred when he was starting a new project. He thought to ask Tony what he was working on, then quickly decided against it. It would be best if he held his questions for after he was through with being busted. Besides, there was a good chance that whatever new business Tony had would be the subject of their phone call. 

"Yeah, sorry, Mr. Stark," Peter started out sheepishly, "I was on the way home, and I totally forgot to call you." He was unconvincing even to himself. Without a doubt he sounded sorry, but in no way would his voice shake so much as he spoke if he had truly forgotten to call. 

"God bless you, you're a horrible liar," Tony sighed. Peter cringed at that. His fingers sought out the bridge of his nose for pinching, and while he processed his failures he took the time to side-step so a group of kids his age could hustle down the steps with their book-bags in tow. He hoped he wouldn't be made too late by the call; the last thing he wanted was to worry May. "And-" Mr. Stark was continuing, drawing Peter from his day-dreams, "-I've told you a million times already, Pete, we've known each other long enough that 'Mr. Stark' has switched over from endearing to creepy. The sooner you make the adjustment, the easier it'll be for the both of us." 

Of course- Peter had forgotten that change in their relationship, even in his thoughts. It'd been a strange evening in Stark tower when he'd been requested by his multi-millionaire idol to address him by his first name. He still got chills thinking about it. "Right," he agreed, regardless, "Sorry, again." He narrowed his eyes at a man struggling with a bicycle lock nearby, then dismissed it as his Spider-Man side being overeager when he realized the code was merely failing its owner. "What is it that you wanted to talk to me about? You said it was urgent." He tore his eyes away from the bike rack, settling instead for a smoothie shop across the way. What could possibly be distracting to his hyper-active senses about blended fruit?

"That it is, Spider-Boy," Tony murmured, sounding suddenly reluctant. Peter was about to complain about the nickname when the man continued to speak, his words far more deliberately spoken when he continued. "Remember that guy? The one who used to do more than tackle a couple of armed robbers?" Peter blinked. The pseudo-pause he assumed he was given to respond was trampled over once more. "Yeah, as much as I hate to put the child behind the mask in danger, we need him again." Even as the pause that followed the additional statement dragged far longer than the former two, Peter was too busy gaping to formulate a reply.

Tony cleared his throat to prompt him to answer. Peter responded, at last, bewildered, "I thought you said you were glad I was taking a break?" He'd turned around again, sick of staring in one spot and determined to pace for the remainder of the conversation. 

"Like I just said," Tony started, sounding as if he already regretted the call, "I'm not totally loving this, but I'd be stupid not to put one of my best players in the game when something big's about to happen." Peter paused his pacing at that. Something 'big', the last time he'd been informed of it, had been the Avengers splitting up and Captain America going on the run with a presumed terrorist. Something 'big' was making him gulp in anticipation.

"Oh," he spoke up at last, clearly uncomfortable, "Well, that's not ominous at all." He rubbed the back of his neck, pivoting his heels so he was peering down into the subway's entrance. He checked his watch. May was waiting, but what Tony had to say seemed too pressing to postpone. "What's going on?"

"Oh, boy, there aren't enough words in the English language to answer that question correctly," Tony chuckled. He was taking a while to get his next words out, which was both concerning and irritating for Peter. The boy held his breath, and he was rewarded by Tony's trade-mark dramatics. "I'll give you just a few, though: unauthorized mutation experimentation. Intrigued? Drop by in fifteen for tea and biscuits. It's going to be one hell of a year for the both of us." At that, Peter was hung up on. 

He didn't exactly have the leeway to simply pop by Stark Tower for fifteen minutes on a whim, what with his Aunt May's latest instilled rules and regulations, but his curiosity was eating him. He blinked at his lock screen, then swiped left and opened his text messages.  _Emergency mting w/ Mr. Stark_ , he started to text May, feeling vaguely guilty for it,  _details later. Sorry! x_

He scurried down the steps once more, that time with a new destination in mind. 

Summer vacation was already shaping up to be something interesting.

 

* * *

 

Of course, Wade had been hopeless before his diagnosis. There had been times when his body was so broken that he couldn't flinch without feeling a fracture, moments where the only thing keeping him from giving into his creeping unconsciousness was the cold sweat on his brow, and nights when his only company had been a stomach full of liquor and the gun in his hand. He'd had the occasional contemplations of death over and over, yes, but he was always forced to keep on living by the knowledge that he was still of health, and especially that he still had something to prove to his late old man. The cancer made him feel hopeless in a new way, in a much more difficult way. Before, he had a reason to trust in himself and his spirit. With his body tearing itself apart, he had nothing. 

His new apartment was a thing of beauty. It was located the furthest from the outskirts of the city that he could manage, mid-way off the ground in one of the tallest complexes he could find. The kitchen was state-of-the-art, complete with falsified steel and a refrigerator that hummed rather than sputtered (though, on the other hand, his stomach had started to sputter rather than hum). The small living room overlooked a wall of ceiling-to-floor windows, which of course he'd covered with sturdy, maroon curtains for privacy. He was in love with it, from each piece of begrudgingly put-together Ikea furniture, down to the sporadic piles of clutter that truly made it his. At its core, the place was cleaner than any space he'd ever considered to be home. 

His favorite feature, which he'd only been able to enjoy properly for a single night, was the balcony. It was several stories above one of the busiest New York City streets he'd ever seen. He'd propped a temporary folding chair next to a cardboard box outside on it, which had become far less temporary since his diagnosis. With the cancer eating his body away, he used the arrangement as a place for him to perch, smoke, and brood. 

God knows he hadn't so much as thought about a cigarette since he was sixteen, still bearing welts on his back and bruises under his eyes from his bastard dad. The smell of them brought him back to dark places. If not for the memories they stirred, he despised them for the flavor they left on his lips, and the way he couldn't last a word without hacking up a lung after smoking them. In a sense, then, he'd banned himself from them for his health, both physical and mental. The cancer had left him apathetic of his "health", though, so in a perfect imitation of Wilson Sr., he smoked religiously.

The first week of his slow death, he spent each and every night with Weasel at Sister Margaret's. Scummy of a person as he was, he was a friend, and he called things as they were. He tried a couple of times to convince Wade to take the chemo, if only so he had the time to blow the last of his wealth on things that would make him happy. Wade refused, blatantly. He wasn't going to fade, slack-jawed and full of chemicals, like some sap in a soap opera. If it was the cancer that was killing him, then he was stubborn enough to die by it alone. A week, however, was far too much time allotted for Weasel to convince him, apparently, seeing as he'd cried when they'd shaken hands goodbye. Fittingly, that had been that: the end of his one, measly friendship. 

He stared down the cherry of his cigarette, which burned red and gold along the flashing lights of the city scape, and watched uncaringly as it spat ashes on his nicest pair of shoes. He couldn't bring himself to care about the effect it made on his presentation. One thing he never understood about the dying were their fleeting concerns to look attractive upon their demise. Who was there for them to impress, when being impressive didn't get them so much as a caress on their cold shoulders? There was nothing to be felt or fussed about when one's brain stopped working. Hell, Wade was determined to be the ugliest corpse the world ever had the displeasure of laying its cruel eyes upon. He wanted his cheeks to be caved in and pale, stained red from his final moments of choking up his lungs and liver, and his skin to be thin and wrinkled like a raisin's. He wanted his land-lord to piss himself when he found him. So, he put his cigarette out on his collar.

He rose slowly from his folding chair, then reached out with shaky fingers to hang onto the railing. From head to toe, every breath and every step had him in agony. He kept finding odd and inexplicable bruises all over his limbs, and in his decay his muscles had thinned and his ribs had protruded. It was terrifying to him how quickly the body he'd spent years building was being picked apart. He stared down at the dizzying line-up of traffic below, his eyes tearing. It would be so much easier to just end his misery with a simple dive, to split his head on the pavement and not have to suffer another migraine. It would be  _too_ easy, he told himself- his suffering, of course, had to be his karma. 

He turned away from the railing, then coughed bile into the crook of his elbow. He wiped the remains from his cheeks and chin. A thrill of warm wind crept by, yet he still felt helplessly cold. He considered for the umpteenth time allowing himself one last look at Peter Parker, in case that night were his last. In the same fashion, he reminded himself again of the broken look he'd planted in the boy's innocent brown eyes when he betrayed him, and he denied himself the pleasure. There was a good reason, after all, that he had realized he liked the boy more than he should: he was kinder than any other individual he'd toyed with, smarter than any other child he'd known, and more excited and delighted by small things and new developments than any animal he'd ever fawned over. Wade had never felt more stable in his life than he had when he'd spent an afternoon at the Parker residence. Beneath the bile, he could still taste their kiss if he thought about it long enough. Peter was a pleasant boy _,_ an all-too  _good boy_. He didn't deserve the trauma.

Wade headed back inside, where he cranked up the thermostat just enough that he ran the risk of cooking his neighbors. After that was done, he crawled into his bed with an air of finality. He thought maybe, just maybe, on his fifteenth night of sleep since his diagnosis, he might pass away peacefully in the night. He closed his eyes with difficulty, hanging his face over the edge of the mattress in case he should vomit in the night. It took him a while, but eventually, he started to snooze. 

Certainly, the world didn't believe that he deserved the rest. There was a sudden knocking on his door, and although he originally elected to ignore it, it persisted in even intervals for an ungodly amount of time. Wade forced himself from his bed with a grunt and a gag. He shuffled over to the door in a few painstaking steps, fumbled with the bolt, then swung it open. 

A man in a suit smiled eerily at him. Without a beat, without an introduction, he held out a black business card under Wade's nose, which from what he could see merely detailed a phone number. Wade barely raised an eyebrow before the man began to speak: "Mr. Wilson, it seems that you've come into some trouble recently," A pause, a condescending once-over. Wade's eyes narrowed. He had a bad feeling about what was happening. "My associates and I believe that we can get you out of it."

Yes, Wade had a very bad feeling, indeed, but not bad enough not to listen. 

Stupidly, he listened. 

   


* * *

   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sad wade pov w an AMAZING frank sinatra song as the title. give it a listen. cry with me.
> 
> the funny thing is, though, with peter's pov being so different, i decided to base the mood on the calvin harris song of the same name,,, hence the reference ;) i think i'm just so clever, don't i?
> 
> p.s. remember when i said 25 chapters? i'm already significantly less sure of that. i'm such a terrible writer for this


	17. We Didn't Start the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mysterious new figure by the name of 'Deadpool' takes the stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your champion returns!
> 
> but on a more serious note, really really sorry for the extended disappearance, fellas. a lot of my life caught up to me last year. regardless, i'm super stoked to be back in the saddle delivering this chapter to y'all. the updates won't be as triumphant and frequent as they were in the beginning, but they'll be here, at least :p

 

 

* * *

 

**0 DAYS.**

"I don't understand," Peter sputtered, his eyes fixed on the white pits of his spandex-clad nemesis's mask, "We saw the building, the records, everything- there's no way-"

The mouth of the mask twitched upward into a smirk. "Baby-face, there's always a way."

 

**92 DAYS.**

"Picture this," Tony started, clasping his hands together. He hadn't sat since they'd all gathered in the boardroom an hour ago. It was a small group consisting of Stark himself, Rhodes, and, much to the board's discomfort, Parker. There were slim pickings on the task force considering T'Challa was busy looking after his country, Vision and Wanda had disappeared to Europe together, and most everyone else had sided with Captain America or gone otherwise missing. Hence: spider-kid's swift upgrade to spider-delegate. 

"You're the Canadian government," Tony continued. He thumbed open the top folder of a teeming pile of paperwork. Peter leaned forward for a peek and managed to glance some seals and stamps and bold words, all very official. 

"I'm the entity of the Canadian government, or I work for the Canadian government?" Rhodes interjected cooly. 

Tony looked at him like he'd bitten into a stale piece of bread. "You're whatever character keeps you invested enough in this very important story to take it seriously," he quipped. The tension superseded the old metaphor of being "cut with a knife", passing between the two men like a block of ice. Clearly, Peter realized, he'd missed an argument. He cleared his throat uncomfortably to catch their attention. 

"Continue, Tony, please," Rhodes encouraged, reclining in his seat. He didn't break eye contact. "I assure you, I'm taking everything about  _this_ -" He gestured vaguely, though his hand seemed to stick mostly to the Peter-region of the table. "-seriously." Ah. So  _he_ was what this was about. 

Tony rolled his eyes. "Don't be a kid," he scoffed, "Trust me, Peter's got more invested in this than either of us, for a whole mess of reasons." 

Peter furrowed his brows. "How come you say that?" he pressed. 

"Just listen," Tony responded simply, staring Rhodes into silence- for the time. "So, you're the Canadian government. You've been paying close attention to world events, and you've noticed the influx of things like mutants, aliens, and superheroes. This is the sort of stuff that's pertinent to the well-being of the whole globe, but, as far as you can tell, the U.S. is yanking the chain on the biggest hitters. How's that fair?" Tony paused, leafing through the papers in the folder he'd opened. He pulled out a particular page and slid it to the middle of the table, so that everyone could see the face of it. The biggest letters on the document read 'Department K' and 'Weapon X'. "That's why you'd delve into this."

"We're all familiar with Wolverine, right? Big hairy guy with adamantium bones?" Tony went on, "He's a product of the early Weapon X projects. It was an effort to create living, breathing weapons, capable of streamlining advanced military efforts- or hunting down their own kind whenever their creators desired them to." He added another page on top, complete with gruesome pictures of the program's procedures. Peter swallowed and averted his eyes. 

"Weapon X operated under Weapon Plus, which, I don't know if you know your history, is the very same program our own Captain America came from," Tony elaborated. Rhodes raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh, yeah, it's on domestic soil, my friends, and it's not pretty. It started with super soldiers, and now it's evolved into turning mutant on mutant, taking down the new species of human from the inside."

"Hold up," Rhodes interrupted, waving his hands, "Time out. I thought those projects were dismantled?"

Tony snapped his fingers, nodding. "Bingo, they were. That's why-" He took back the papers he'd been presenting them with and tucked them back into their folder, "-the fact that they're still operating is so concerning." 

"Operating how?" Peter pressed, leaning forward, "Where?"

Tony looked at the youngest of the group for a while, seemingly thinking on something. "Not far," he said, "North of here, nestled along the Canadian border. It seems like our neighbors have been getting tired of watching us have all the fun, and some rogues in their government have rekindled our old partner project in secrecy. It's like- It's like we're dealing with our ex-girlfriend's vindictive younger brother." He opened a new folder, hesitating. "They've been sending out agents to poach disadvantaged mutants and prey on the sick."

Tony started placing documents on the table, pictures of people who'd disappeared and turned up under the authority of Canada's Department K. Lauren Kaisser, Jackson Foley, Katya Ivanov- "Wade Wilson," Peter read aloud, soft and shellshocked. His heart hadn't beat so hard in a long time. "He's... mutant?"

Tony shrugged, watching his charge carefully. "Maybe, or maybe he really was just a regular guy. I don't know how they got him, I just know that they had him."

"'Had'?" Peter repeated, his voice cracking, "What, he's on the loose now?" Wilson alone had been a nightmare, but Wilson mutated? He was screwed if that guy was out there, knowing who he was and where he lived. He knew about _May._  

"I'm sorry," Rhodes started slowly, looking between the two of them, "We know him?" Tony lifted his hand at the man, as if to say,  _We'll talk later._

"He's dead," Tony informed, ripping off the bandaid, "The facility they took him to was burned to the ground by the time we arrived. They were covering their tracks, moving on." 

Peter just stared, reeling. He had every reason to be relieved by Wade Wilson's death; one less person knew his secret and wanted his blood. Even so, all he could think of was free cocoa and cherry chapstick. He folded his hands in his lap hard enough to make his palms break under the pressure of his nails, and he breathed deeply. "What's the next step, then?" he pressed. His voice shook, but he forced determination in his eyes. "It can't be a dead end."

Tony seemed to approve of his reaction, nodding a bit. "It's not," he affirmed, passing forward a stack of photos. On top was a blurry image of a red man fighting off seven or more men, and underneath there was a more focused still of the same red man dragging a body behind himself. Each photo gave Peter and Rhodes a more detailed depiction of the spandex-wearing, katana-wielding vigilante that was their only lead. "He goes by Deadpool, and he's looking, too."

 

**87 DAYS.**

Wade could give two shits about who and  _what_ he was dealing with when it came to the people who'd jacked him up on mutant genes. Was it super cool/ super fuckedto be able to regenerate whole limbs since his time in ye ol' oxygen deprivation tank? Hell yeah, but that didn't turn him into some kind of investigator. All he'd wanted coming into the project was to have his body back, and now all he wanted was his face. How did he suppose to get it back? By breaking other sons of bitches' moneymakers. 

"Right about now is when you're going to want to tell me where Francis is," he whispered into his latest victim's ear, holding his broken body up by the collar of his jacket, "Or, y'know, you could keep it to yourself, but then I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to ensure the continued relationship between your pelvis and your micropenis." He always did enjoy poking rats when he was a little boy, because it made him feel powerful to watch them squirm. 

"I don't know, man," squealed the rat, "I told you- they don't tell us anything, we just deliver the stuff. Please..." He was starting to sob. To avoid getting covered in the residue of his hostage's unmanly tears, Wade held him at arm's length. 

"Come  _on_ , think harder!" Wade huffed, shaking the body and producing some more screams out of it, "It's been six dead ends so far, and I'm over it. Tell me where to look, at least!" He waited, but his only response was more gross sobbing. He shook the man again. " _Tell me something_ _!_ "

The rat struggled to turn his face, his eyes wild and his cheeks shiny with tears and snot. "Just let me live, please! If you let me go, I-I'll poke around, I _swear_." Wade analyzed his face, thinking hard about what he was being promised. If he was being lied to, Francis would be tipped off and flee. No, that wouldn't do any good, none at all. However, there was something convincing about the way the fella was squirming in fear. Hell, it was the closest he'd come to information. He dropped the man without warning, didn't even flinch at his scream of pain.

"Fine," he sighed, "but you'd better have a good story by the time I come back, or I swear on the sanctity of my beefy balls that I'll _screw you_. You'll be so screwed, you'll be tasting your own asshole for centuries, buddy." He stepped over his victim's body, wiping his bloody glove on the cardboard packages that framed the facility on his way out. "Six days," he singsonged, "'till I  _screeeew youuuu_."  

 

**90 DAYS.**

Ned set down his controller slowly, treating Peter with caution. "Dead?" he parroted, "Like, for real? How do you know?" The 'game over' noise chimed from the TV set, but neither boy reacted. 

"Tony told me," Peter replied, almost glum. He kept his expression neutral. It was just as hard not to hurt at the mention of Wade Wilson's death as it was not to seethe over his memory. He'd been made painfully aware of his youth by him, fooled by him, trapped and underestimated by him, but that didn't mean he wasn't a human being whose life held value. Also, that didn't mean that Peter could just wipe away the  _feelings_ that had come of that manipulative time. A lot of it, he had to admit, had felt authentic. 

Ned blinked. "Oh, man," he breathed, "That's... I mean, at least you know there's no way he's watching you, right?" Peter just looked at him blankly. "Right, sorry. I just thought, y'know, maybe-"

Peter put on a smile and shrugged, something he'd gotten used to. He didn't need anybody walking on eggshells just because he still felt raw about the situation. "It's whatever. That'd be the normal reaction, yeah?" He turned his head, laughing wryly. The bed moved beside him, and the TV clicked as Ned turned it off.

"You're normal," he insisted, "Your mind's working the way it's supposed to when messed up stuff happens-" _How very medical of him,_ Peter thought to himself,  _May should stop investing money in therapy, honestly_.  "Any reaction you have to this, as long as it's not, like, manic? That's normal."  _But he's not wrong, and he's being sincere,_ he continued to think,  _and I'm being a dick._

Eventually, Peter nodded, his head tipping forward so his eyes were fixed on his twitting thumbs. Their conversation was starting to sound like the ones he had with Tony, except there were no reassuring personal anecdotes and fatherly shoulder pats. That, and Tony didn't use words like "man" and "for real". 

As if some other worldly force had reminded him to act like a kid, Ned probed, "How'd he die?" When Peter looked up at him, affronted, he saw the big brown eyes of a child. Was that what 'Mr. Stark' saw when he looked at him? Their wideness shrunk, making Ned look embarrassed with himself. "I mean, if you're comfortable, or even- do you know?" 

Peter raised an eyebrow at him. "I don't," he lied, "and if I did, why would I-?" The bed shifted again, and Ned raised his hands in his defense.

"No, you're right, too far," he mumbled, dropping his eyes. He really was just interested in the most innocent ways, which was obvious to Peter. If the roles had been reversed and Ned was the one fighting crime and working side by side with Tony Stark, he'd probably wish he could have a taste of the action, too. It made him feel bad. The least he owed his best friend was a good story, right? Just to make up for the lost time and missed phone calls that came with hero work. 

"No, no," Peter started, shifting closer to Ned. He looked at his bedroom door to re-check that it was closed, not wanting May to hear what they were about to discuss. "I do know, I lied. It's-" Ned gave him an almost offended look, which he chose to ignore. "It's got to do with a new case I'm working on with Mr. Stark. Apparently..." He looked around again. Should he really be discussing this, actually? Aw, what the hell- it wasn't like he hadn't leaked big secrets before. "...he got roped into an illegal government project, died in a fire." He tried to detach himself from the words.

Ned's eyes went child-wide again. "Woah," he gasped, "Really?" He sat back, looked up at the ceiling, processing. "They were covering their tracks, then? Or...?" Naive as he could be, Ned could be as astute as Stark himself. Peter nodded, feeling better to have somebody to talk to every bit of the crazy shit with. If he was being entirely honest, letting his best friend in on the action had a lot to do with his sanity, too.

"Mhm. And there's this guy that-that- okay, this part's cool." Peter turned his body and cleared his throat. "So, this guy that nobody knows about- not the government, the X-Men, the Avengers, or anybody- has been showing up poking around for information about the program. From pictures, it looks like he can beat down upwards of eleven people without getting a scratch." Ned's jaw dropped, and Peter nodded emphatically. "Right? And the even crazier part is that he fights with  _katanas_ in  _full spandex_. I mean, _how_?"

"That doesn't sound practical," Ned remarked, furrowing his eyebrows. He looked at Peter, developing an expression of horror. "You're not...?"

Peter knew what he'd realized straight away. "We are," he admitted, "Tony and Rhodes have already scouted every place his potential next appearance can be. They've set up cameras and made notes of employees, stuff like that. All we need is to wait and see where he hits next, and if it's a match..." Ned still looked queasy, so he trailed off, frowning slightly. "Dude, if you're worried, I'm still-"

"Spiderman?" Ned interrupted, "Yeah, I know." He picked his controller back up, his face covered in lingering worry. "Super powers or not, you're still a bug at the end of the day. Just be careful not to let someone squash you under their boot."

 

**86 DAYS.**

In the middle of a rare restful night, Peter woke up to his cell phone warbling and belting like an angry bird next to his ear. He rubbed his eyes and groaned, trying in vain to avoid the flashing bright lights and clamor. The time read five-fifteen A.M., which would normally warrant a grumpy denial and a full phone shutdown, but the contact told him it was Tony. He picked up. "Hello?" he grumbled, three quarters of the way back to sleep. 

"He made a visit last night," Tony announced, cut to the chase, "Deadpool. He left a survivor, too. I need you here ASAP, Pete." 

Five minutes, and he was lacing his shoelaces. 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay! soooo it's been a while, but I hope y'all enjoyed it. my biggest fear is that i'm totally rusty and this fic is totally spoiled now, but i figured it's better for me to get over that fear and give y'all what you want than to not publish anything at all. 
> 
> tbc ;)


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